Nothing to do but pass back the marlinspike and retrieve your small ivory fid, that is. You may be practical about a set of clothes, but you'll be damned if you're going into the deeps to never return and leaving the one bit of plunder you've taken by your own hands and kept with your own hands. Both pretty and useful is an irresistible mix to this lot and everyone aboard has had a go at that fid.
The marlinspike would indeed most likely be more practical—it's larger and sturdier, and would probably make quicker work of the knot in the scrap of heavy line still tied to the harpoon's eye. But you will not leave the fid behind, and so you do not, too—and it's an easier fit alongside the knife in the leather sheath, too, which is no small consideration when you have only your teeth in which to securely hold whatever tools you carry. Lu's reserve is unequal to her smirk, and even Quen's ever-present smile seems for an instant animated by genuine amusement. "A real pirate, you. Go on, now."
It's not difficult to climb into the bosun's seat, only a bit tricky to do so without thumping against the boards of the captain's cabin; having managed it, you give Quen a nod, and she begins to pay out the line. It's not the smoothest of descents, and a careful shift of weight is needed to counter the pendulum swing that each jerk of the line sets in motion; you're passing alongside the captain's cabin windows now, and though the glass is sturdy, you would not wish to rattle your toenails against it in fending yourself away from the side. The curtains are drawn, and only the dim orange light of a low-burning lantern shines through.
Looking beneath you as the Bitch's hull begins to curve away, you see that you're going to need to start a pendulum swing of your own; the beast is close aboard indeed, but not beneath you, and it's going to take a nice bit of timing to come to rest atop it instead of ending up in the water alongside. You're not the worst of swimmers, but you've no desire to take a dip, either; the water will be chilly, and getting the salt out of your fur is always such a chore.
And looking above you as you begin gently to swing, to check that Quen will spot what you're doing and properly time your descent—well. It's hard to tell from here, with so little light and such a poor angle. But there is that about the wolf woman's expression, veiled in shadow though it is, that gives you suddenly and strongly to suspect that she is going to drop you.
And this, with a yank and a flick of the line, she suddenly does.
In the instant, as you feel the pressure of the belaying-pin seat fall away from your behind, you can see how neatly she's done it—the line coming loose of the pin, as though a simple change of tension made it free to fall away, and the sudden lack of friction yanked the line out of Quen's grip. A simple accident, easily explained away, and what a shame about the new girl on the crew. But you are no stranger to duplicity, and you think one so experienced as she does no longer fall prey to such errors—not unless she so chooses.
But then, of course, you're falling, and the period of your swing was not yet such as to land you atop the deep thing's body—close, but not close enough, and as you slam into the curve of its flank just ahead of the falling heavy line, you find its skin is too slick and rubbery to offer the purchase you'd need to stay in place. Down you slide, into the water, and with the line falling around you and the bosun's chair now a tangle around your midsection and thighs, it's going to be very difficult to fight your way free and back to the surface in time to catch the breath knocked out of you when you hit the thing.