The Ark
She bares her teeth in a grin that’s all salt and mischief. "Guess we're in agreement about the use of his hands," she says easily, eyes flicking once toward the helm and back again.
The spark of flame makes The Ark's spine tighten before she can help it, a reflex older than thought. Wood remembers. Pitch remembers. Her gaze tracks the fire as if it might bite, even though she trusts Jack with it, even though she’s swallowed smoke for decades without complaint. She watches him draw in, watches the ember wake and dim, committing the motion to memory. When he offers it, she takes it with a vixen’s lift of brow and a knowing shrug. "Maybe one day," she murmurs, mouth curving. They both knew there was a time and place for using an ability like that to be well-received by a man like Jack.
She brings the cigarette to her lips, then, copying what she'd seen Jack do. The smoke hits like a breaker against a seam she didn’t know she had. Her throat locks; the breath she meant to keep turns traitor. She coughs hard, shoulders hitching as she tips her head back, gasping for air. Canvas snaps overhead in answer, sails flapping sharp and loud despite the steady wind already in them. Her eyes sting; water beads and spills. One hand shoots out to the nearest crate, fingers biting into the wood for balance while the other keeps the cigarette aloft, stubborn and shaking.
Then she laughs—breathless, bright—blinking the wet away. "Didn’t expect that," she says, voice roughened but pleased, like she’s learned something useful the hard way. She lowers the cigarette, regards it with a fresh, appraising look, and steals another grin at Jack as the deck settles under her feet again. "So much of this seems familiar, but.." She lifts the cigarette to her lips again, as proof of what was different as much as how quickly she was able to learn, before taking a much slower and more measured drag.
The spark of flame makes The Ark's spine tighten before she can help it, a reflex older than thought. Wood remembers. Pitch remembers. Her gaze tracks the fire as if it might bite, even though she trusts Jack with it, even though she’s swallowed smoke for decades without complaint. She watches him draw in, watches the ember wake and dim, committing the motion to memory. When he offers it, she takes it with a vixen’s lift of brow and a knowing shrug. "Maybe one day," she murmurs, mouth curving. They both knew there was a time and place for using an ability like that to be well-received by a man like Jack.
She brings the cigarette to her lips, then, copying what she'd seen Jack do. The smoke hits like a breaker against a seam she didn’t know she had. Her throat locks; the breath she meant to keep turns traitor. She coughs hard, shoulders hitching as she tips her head back, gasping for air. Canvas snaps overhead in answer, sails flapping sharp and loud despite the steady wind already in them. Her eyes sting; water beads and spills. One hand shoots out to the nearest crate, fingers biting into the wood for balance while the other keeps the cigarette aloft, stubborn and shaking.
Then she laughs—breathless, bright—blinking the wet away. "Didn’t expect that," she says, voice roughened but pleased, like she’s learned something useful the hard way. She lowers the cigarette, regards it with a fresh, appraising look, and steals another grin at Jack as the deck settles under her feet again. "So much of this seems familiar, but.." She lifts the cigarette to her lips again, as proof of what was different as much as how quickly she was able to learn, before taking a much slower and more measured drag.
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.
