The Ark
The Ark makes a low, dissatisfied sound, more vibration than word, and her gaze drifts down Jack's arm until it catches on the compass rose inked there. "You’ve been leaving me more than I like," she says, almost idly, before breathing out through her nose and lifting one shoulder. She wasn't unaware of the reasons Jack had been away from her or the additional power it had granted him, but nor did she see the need for him to plan to be that far from her.
Her mouth curves again as the moment passes, eyes flicking toward the dark beyond the porthole. "The Spillwave’s a pleasant sea," she allows. "All glass and manners." The words soften even as her eyes sharpen, blue darkening like water deepening away from shore. "Too calm, though. It doesn’t talk back."
At his quip, she glances back at him, slow and knowing, lips parting in a grin that promises sin without instruction. "I’ve never needed words to put you to work," she says lightly.
When Jack straightens, she moves with him—confident, unhesitating—and the first step goes wide. Rather than flailing for balance as one might expect, instead, the Ark catches herself in the only way she knows how. The ship lists suddenly beneath her feet, leaning as if surging on a wave despite the lack of water around them; the floor rises up to steady her as the correction ripples outward: papers slide off Jack's deck like startled fish, a chair scrapes and skitters, boots roll and knock against the wall.
She laughs, the sound bright and unbothered, hair spilling forward before she tosses it back again. The deck eases level under her feet, satisfied, as if the adjustment had been intentional all along. "One word about sea legs and I'll send you overboard," she warns, flexing her toes against the boards, testing the give of them with clear delight.
Her mouth curves again as the moment passes, eyes flicking toward the dark beyond the porthole. "The Spillwave’s a pleasant sea," she allows. "All glass and manners." The words soften even as her eyes sharpen, blue darkening like water deepening away from shore. "Too calm, though. It doesn’t talk back."
At his quip, she glances back at him, slow and knowing, lips parting in a grin that promises sin without instruction. "I’ve never needed words to put you to work," she says lightly.
When Jack straightens, she moves with him—confident, unhesitating—and the first step goes wide. Rather than flailing for balance as one might expect, instead, the Ark catches herself in the only way she knows how. The ship lists suddenly beneath her feet, leaning as if surging on a wave despite the lack of water around them; the floor rises up to steady her as the correction ripples outward: papers slide off Jack's deck like startled fish, a chair scrapes and skitters, boots roll and knock against the wall.
She laughs, the sound bright and unbothered, hair spilling forward before she tosses it back again. The deck eases level under her feet, satisfied, as if the adjustment had been intentional all along. "One word about sea legs and I'll send you overboard," she warns, flexing her toes against the boards, testing the give of them with clear delight.
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
