The Ark
The Ark lifts a brow over the rim of the bowl, honey still clinging thickly to her mouth, and lowers it just enough to drag her tongue along her wine-dark lip, tasting the last of the sweetness there. Her eyes slide to where he nods—the bread sitting squat and unassuming among the other offerings—and at his mention of getting sick she wrinkles her nose at once, the way she does when bilge water sloshes somewhere it shouldn’t. The bowl dips from her hands, set aside without ceremony.
It doesn’t occur to her to wipe away the gold streaking her chin. It glints there, catching lanternlight, as she reaches for the bread instead, fingers closing around it with faint suspicion. Jack has never steered her wrong, and so she trusts him now the same way she always has, even when the course looks dull or uncomfortable.
She takes a bite, and her face pinches immediately. She chews, jaw working, and swallows with a little huff of displeasure. "That’s...so dry," she says, affronted, before sighing and taking another bite anyway, stubborn as any ship pushing through a dead wind. The ache in her belly doesn’t ease right away. It lingers, tight and unfamiliar, and she slows, lowering the bread as her gaze lifts back to him. There’s something almost young in the look she gives him then; not needy, not frightened, just openly unsure in a way she’s never had cause to be before. "How long," she asks quietly, one hand drifting back to her stomach, "until it starts feeling better?"
It doesn’t occur to her to wipe away the gold streaking her chin. It glints there, catching lanternlight, as she reaches for the bread instead, fingers closing around it with faint suspicion. Jack has never steered her wrong, and so she trusts him now the same way she always has, even when the course looks dull or uncomfortable.
She takes a bite, and her face pinches immediately. She chews, jaw working, and swallows with a little huff of displeasure. "That’s...so dry," she says, affronted, before sighing and taking another bite anyway, stubborn as any ship pushing through a dead wind. The ache in her belly doesn’t ease right away. It lingers, tight and unfamiliar, and she slows, lowering the bread as her gaze lifts back to him. There’s something almost young in the look she gives him then; not needy, not frightened, just openly unsure in a way she’s never had cause to be before. "How long," she asks quietly, one hand drifting back to her stomach, "until it starts feeling better?"
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.
