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 hit the deck again.
The sound was almost musical now — the slap of her palms, the grunt of impact, the soft scuff of her coat dragging across the boards. If Thalassa had meant to trip her, she succeeded. If she’d meant to discourage her, she failed spectacularly.
Zairah’s laugh was short, rough, and cut through the air like glass ground underfoot. Then came the growl, low and quiet, more frustration than fury. “Gods—” She spat the word like it burned her tongue. “You’re slippery.”
She rolled onto her knees, hair stuck to her face, tail lashing hard enough to rattle a nearby crate. Her palms stung, her pride ached, and she could feel the slow heat of anger uncoiling in her gut — not cold anger, not resentment. Lust. The same kind of hungry heat that had filled the temple halls when Charlie laughed and the world had gone red.
Zairah shoved herself up, boots scraping, chest rising and falling hard. “Don’t be impatient,” she echoed, mocking the tone but not the meaning. Her grin was all teeth. “Easy for you to say when you blink out of the way like smoke.”
Still, she listened. Her stance changed again, feet drawn in tighter, knees bent just enough, her weight lower now, centered. A spark of something clicked behind her eyes.
Then she lunged again, but this time not in a straight line. She feinted left first — clumsy but clever — and then pivoted right, her tail sweeping behind her like a live thing, low and fast, trying to take the captain’s legs out from under her.
It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t even likely to land. But it was fast — the kind of movement that came from instinct, not training — and the look on her face was pure, electric joy.
“Overextending this?” she called mid-swing, voice breathless but bright, laughing even as she fought.
If she missed again, it wouldn’t be defeat that burned through her, it’d be excitement.
The sound was almost musical now — the slap of her palms, the grunt of impact, the soft scuff of her coat dragging across the boards. If Thalassa had meant to trip her, she succeeded. If she’d meant to discourage her, she failed spectacularly.
Zairah’s laugh was short, rough, and cut through the air like glass ground underfoot. Then came the growl, low and quiet, more frustration than fury. “Gods—” She spat the word like it burned her tongue. “You’re slippery.”
She rolled onto her knees, hair stuck to her face, tail lashing hard enough to rattle a nearby crate. Her palms stung, her pride ached, and she could feel the slow heat of anger uncoiling in her gut — not cold anger, not resentment. Lust. The same kind of hungry heat that had filled the temple halls when Charlie laughed and the world had gone red.
Zairah shoved herself up, boots scraping, chest rising and falling hard. “Don’t be impatient,” she echoed, mocking the tone but not the meaning. Her grin was all teeth. “Easy for you to say when you blink out of the way like smoke.”
Still, she listened. Her stance changed again, feet drawn in tighter, knees bent just enough, her weight lower now, centered. A spark of something clicked behind her eyes.
Then she lunged again, but this time not in a straight line. She feinted left first — clumsy but clever — and then pivoted right, her tail sweeping behind her like a live thing, low and fast, trying to take the captain’s legs out from under her.
It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t even likely to land. But it was fast — the kind of movement that came from instinct, not training — and the look on her face was pure, electric joy.
“Overextending this?” she called mid-swing, voice breathless but bright, laughing even as she fought.
If she missed again, it wouldn’t be defeat that burned through her, it’d be excitement.
(Training 3/4)
