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 grunted under the weight of the crate, every muscle in her arms screaming their protest, but she didn’t let go. Not even when the dock tilted under her boots or when the cold wind shoved her sideways. Her balance wasn’t grace—it was sheer stubbornness. The kind you learned from fire, not finesse.
She made it halfway up the ramp before the box slipped against her chest. Her tail lashed out in reflex, trying to steady her, and cracked against someone’s back instead. The sailor yelped, spinning around, and Zairah blurted, “Sorry!” between panting breaths, her face flushed with the kind of mortified amusement that never lasted long. “Didn’t mean to hit you. It’s got a mind of its own.”
That earned her a few muffled snickers from the crew, but she didn’t look away, didn’t shrink from it. If anything, she grinned only half out of embarrassment. It felt good to be part of the noise, even if she didn’t understand the rhythm yet.
By the time she reached the deck, her arms were shaking. She set the crate down too fast, wincing at the dull thud it made, then straightened and glanced over just in time to catch Thalassa setting hers with a kind of casual precision that made the whole thing look effortless. Zairah watched the motion like someone studying a ritual.
Zairah flexed her sore fingers and muttered under her breath, “Didn’t drop it.” Then louder, because she didn’t want it mistaken for sulking: “Didn’t drop it!” And for a moment she beamed at the captain, reminiscent of a dog that knows it's just done a good job.
Thalassa’s final remark landed like a slap of cold air. Don’t expect to get anything out of this.
Zairah blinked, then nodded once, slow and serious. “Uhm. Okay then, you either!” She retorted simply, though she didn’t sound particularly bothered. If anything, she sounded a little confused. What would I get out of this? She turned to leave, but curiosity snagged her like a hook.
Her gaze dropped to the crate Thalassa had carried, the faint clink of bottles whispering inside. She crouched, pried the lid open with her nails, and plucked one out, holding it up to the light. The glass was cold against her palm, amber liquid sloshing thickly inside.
She glanced around, then popped the cork with a soft thup and took a sniff. The scent hit her like a punch—sweet, heavy, burning. She jerked back, coughing. “Woah, ugh!” she blurted, eyes watering as she blinked at the bottle like it had personally offended her. “You drink this?”
Her voice was half disbelief, half admiration, as if Thalassa had just confirmed she regularly swallowed fire.
She peered back at the captain as she straightened up, still holding the bottle like a piece of alien tech she was trying to understand. “Does it make you stronger, or do you just like suffering?”
She made it halfway up the ramp before the box slipped against her chest. Her tail lashed out in reflex, trying to steady her, and cracked against someone’s back instead. The sailor yelped, spinning around, and Zairah blurted, “Sorry!” between panting breaths, her face flushed with the kind of mortified amusement that never lasted long. “Didn’t mean to hit you. It’s got a mind of its own.”
That earned her a few muffled snickers from the crew, but she didn’t look away, didn’t shrink from it. If anything, she grinned only half out of embarrassment. It felt good to be part of the noise, even if she didn’t understand the rhythm yet.
By the time she reached the deck, her arms were shaking. She set the crate down too fast, wincing at the dull thud it made, then straightened and glanced over just in time to catch Thalassa setting hers with a kind of casual precision that made the whole thing look effortless. Zairah watched the motion like someone studying a ritual.
Zairah flexed her sore fingers and muttered under her breath, “Didn’t drop it.” Then louder, because she didn’t want it mistaken for sulking: “Didn’t drop it!” And for a moment she beamed at the captain, reminiscent of a dog that knows it's just done a good job.
Thalassa’s final remark landed like a slap of cold air. Don’t expect to get anything out of this.
Zairah blinked, then nodded once, slow and serious. “Uhm. Okay then, you either!” She retorted simply, though she didn’t sound particularly bothered. If anything, she sounded a little confused. What would I get out of this? She turned to leave, but curiosity snagged her like a hook.
Her gaze dropped to the crate Thalassa had carried, the faint clink of bottles whispering inside. She crouched, pried the lid open with her nails, and plucked one out, holding it up to the light. The glass was cold against her palm, amber liquid sloshing thickly inside.
She glanced around, then popped the cork with a soft thup and took a sniff. The scent hit her like a punch—sweet, heavy, burning. She jerked back, coughing. “Woah, ugh!” she blurted, eyes watering as she blinked at the bottle like it had personally offended her. “You drink this?”
Her voice was half disbelief, half admiration, as if Thalassa had just confirmed she regularly swallowed fire.
She peered back at the captain as she straightened up, still holding the bottle like a piece of alien tech she was trying to understand. “Does it make you stronger, or do you just like suffering?”
