Don't Rock the Boat

Sylen peeled another pebble off the top of his shoe and tossed it against the wall again. "Mmm. Alright." There wasn't much he could do-- he didn't have a great angle to listen from either. It was anyone's guess what the mages were doing, and the faster Sylen and Uwe got themselves together, the better their advantage would be in a conflict. He continued the cycle: pulling a small chunk of rock from his shoe, tossing it, hitting the wall, over and over again. It was a way to pass the time, and, ideally, a way to eventually pry the stupid shoes off.

As he tossed pebble after pebble, he watched the mage accompanying him-- small, slim, overdressed, and frantic. And not doing anything about his shoes.

Sylen glanced around the room; as a basement, it was little more than a storage space for things the owners were willing to get dirty. A wooden oar and kayak, some building tools, various planks of oak or pine, misshapen brick pieces, and so on. Sylen crawled toward the nearest pile of arguable garbage and rummaged through it with one hand, propping himself up with his other elbow. 

"Gotta figure out a way out of here, Uwe," he said, eyes still trained on the pile of junk. Eventually he found what he was looking for.

He wiggled back onto his rear, toward the wall, and leaned against it. Then he tilted the nail in his hand against the edge of his boot and began hammering.