The Ark
The Ark straightens slowly, drawing herself upright from the rail as if she’s hauling a sail hand over hand, the air filling her lungs in a way that still feels indulgent rather than necessary. The Spillwave breathes against her hull—against her—a patient, glassy pulse that nudges and rocks with a familiarity she understands down to her marrow. Her hair lifts and settles with the breeze, maroon strands slipping over her shoulders like kelp in a gentle current, and for a moment she is everywhere at once: the woman at the rail, the ship riding at anchor, the water lapping in quiet conversation.
When Jack comes alongside her, she turns without hurry, sea-bright eyes catching the light and throwing it back at him. His finger brushes her throat and the touch lands somewhere deep, not just skin but memory of that touch on lines run taut, on tables and railings. She nods once, slow and certain, the curve of her smile spreading into something sharp and pleased. "Well," she says, voice easy, carrying the salt and the sun with it, "if I can breathe..." Her gaze flicks past him, out toward the water where bodies arc and vanish in flashes of skin and laughter, then back to him again, gleaming with roguish confidence. "Seems like there’s no way for me to go under, is there?"
She leans a fraction closer, the ship answering with a faint, contented roll beneath them, and glances down at the calm blue stretch waiting below. "Will you put it on?" she asks lightly, already tipping her weight toward the edge, as if the sea has been calling her name all along and now that she's finally in a position to answer, she can barely wait.
When Jack comes alongside her, she turns without hurry, sea-bright eyes catching the light and throwing it back at him. His finger brushes her throat and the touch lands somewhere deep, not just skin but memory of that touch on lines run taut, on tables and railings. She nods once, slow and certain, the curve of her smile spreading into something sharp and pleased. "Well," she says, voice easy, carrying the salt and the sun with it, "if I can breathe..." Her gaze flicks past him, out toward the water where bodies arc and vanish in flashes of skin and laughter, then back to him again, gleaming with roguish confidence. "Seems like there’s no way for me to go under, is there?"
She leans a fraction closer, the ship answering with a faint, contented roll beneath them, and glances down at the calm blue stretch waiting below. "Will you put it on?" she asks lightly, already tipping her weight toward the edge, as if the sea has been calling her name all along and now that she's finally in a position to answer, she can barely wait.
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.
