Zairah
I had a dream, which was not all a dream... The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless..
Zairah flinched at the snap of the captain’s voice, but it wasn’t fear that did it. It was interest. Like a spark landing too close to tinder. The air between them smelled of salt, sweat, and something metallic, and it set her nerves ringing in the best way.
“You just pick it up,” Thalassa said, voice sharp as a blade scraping stone. Zairah blinked at the obviousness of it, then followed the captain’s gaze toward the men hefting crates with the same rhythm and resignation as the tide. The simplicity of it almost offended her—no ceremony, no purpose beyond doing the motions. Still, she crouched beside the nearest one, pressing her gloved fingers against the rough wood, testing the edges like it might try to fight her back.
"Simple," she echoed, "Okay.."
Her boots scraped as she straightened, hugging the crate to her chest. It was heavier than she expected. Muscles she didn’t know she had protested immediately, but she liked the burn—it made her feel sharper. The cold didn’t bite quite as hard when her blood was moving.
When Thalassa said she was the captain, Zairah paused to look at her again. Captain. The word held weight, not unlike the word 'priestess'. The kind of title that made sense in a world still too big for her to understand. Her eyes flicked up, studying the woman’s stance, the command in the angle of her jaw, the easy threat in her voice.
“You don’t seem like someone who has to remind them twice,” she said, matter-of-fact, with the faintest edge of admiration. “I think they listen because they like you.”
She said it too casually, too bluntly, but didn’t bother correcting herself. Instead, she started hauling the crate toward the ship in an awkward, half-staggering shuffle. “I can help,” she added over her shoulder. “You don’t have to beat my ass, unless I drop it.”
The grin she threw back at Thalassa was quick and crooked—half challenge, half gratitude.
“You just pick it up,” Thalassa said, voice sharp as a blade scraping stone. Zairah blinked at the obviousness of it, then followed the captain’s gaze toward the men hefting crates with the same rhythm and resignation as the tide. The simplicity of it almost offended her—no ceremony, no purpose beyond doing the motions. Still, she crouched beside the nearest one, pressing her gloved fingers against the rough wood, testing the edges like it might try to fight her back.
"Simple," she echoed, "Okay.."
Her boots scraped as she straightened, hugging the crate to her chest. It was heavier than she expected. Muscles she didn’t know she had protested immediately, but she liked the burn—it made her feel sharper. The cold didn’t bite quite as hard when her blood was moving.
When Thalassa said she was the captain, Zairah paused to look at her again. Captain. The word held weight, not unlike the word 'priestess'. The kind of title that made sense in a world still too big for her to understand. Her eyes flicked up, studying the woman’s stance, the command in the angle of her jaw, the easy threat in her voice.
“You don’t seem like someone who has to remind them twice,” she said, matter-of-fact, with the faintest edge of admiration. “I think they listen because they like you.”
She said it too casually, too bluntly, but didn’t bother correcting herself. Instead, she started hauling the crate toward the ship in an awkward, half-staggering shuffle. “I can help,” she added over her shoulder. “You don’t have to beat my ass, unless I drop it.”
The grin she threw back at Thalassa was quick and crooked—half challenge, half gratitude.
