The Ark
The Ark’s laugh spills out low and bright at Jack's safety first, the sound catching on the rigging like wind teasing canvas. It is so unlike him that she can’t help the grin that blooms, sharp and delighted, as she watches him go. Cunning first, sure. But safety? Even without turning her head she knows where he is—his path traced in the familiar language of footfall and weight and intent—and his cabin door will swing open just as he reaches it.
When he returns, she helps lift her hair, fingers combing the heavy maroon spill aside so the crystal can settle against her throat. The leather is cool, the manta stone cooler still, and the contact sends a shiver skimming down her spine like a ripple racing a hull. She turns back toward him as he fastens it, eyes bright, pleased by the weight of it, by the way it marks her as something both adorned and prepared, but when has he ever given her anything less?
She notices how the crew have stripped down before entering the water, such that there is almost nothing coy in the way she reaches for the bottom of Jack's shirt, catching the hem and tugging it up and free in one smooth, thoughtless motion. Fabric slides, air rushes in, and she stands bare to the sun and salt with no hesitation at all, skin warmed and alive, scars and curves and the long history of her written openly across her. The shirt drops at her feet, forgotten, and she looks at him once more with that same cheshire, sea-bright smile, all promise and mischief and invitation.
Then she turns and steps into nothing. The sea rises to meet her like a held breath finally released, cool and enveloping, her body knifing down through blue that folds around her without resistance. For a heartbeat there is the instinct to try and sail, for the familiar certainty of weight and balance atop the water, but the crystal at her throat hums softly and air remains with her, easy and constant. Her hair fans out in a dark red halo, currents cradling and guiding her as if the water itself remembers her, recognizes her, makes room. She doesn’t swim so much as allow herself to be carried, the sea pressing where she leans, turning her gently when she turns her thoughts, each movement answered by a subtle shift of tide, a whisper of magical control as intuitive as sailing herself had been, such that she isn't even aware she's doing it. It is not the rush of speed she knows from cutting waves, but something slower, intimate, like being held beneath the surface of her own mind, and the delight of it blooms wide and bright in her chest as she drifts, suspended, finally inside the element that has always known her best.
When he returns, she helps lift her hair, fingers combing the heavy maroon spill aside so the crystal can settle against her throat. The leather is cool, the manta stone cooler still, and the contact sends a shiver skimming down her spine like a ripple racing a hull. She turns back toward him as he fastens it, eyes bright, pleased by the weight of it, by the way it marks her as something both adorned and prepared, but when has he ever given her anything less?
She notices how the crew have stripped down before entering the water, such that there is almost nothing coy in the way she reaches for the bottom of Jack's shirt, catching the hem and tugging it up and free in one smooth, thoughtless motion. Fabric slides, air rushes in, and she stands bare to the sun and salt with no hesitation at all, skin warmed and alive, scars and curves and the long history of her written openly across her. The shirt drops at her feet, forgotten, and she looks at him once more with that same cheshire, sea-bright smile, all promise and mischief and invitation.
Then she turns and steps into nothing. The sea rises to meet her like a held breath finally released, cool and enveloping, her body knifing down through blue that folds around her without resistance. For a heartbeat there is the instinct to try and sail, for the familiar certainty of weight and balance atop the water, but the crystal at her throat hums softly and air remains with her, easy and constant. Her hair fans out in a dark red halo, currents cradling and guiding her as if the water itself remembers her, recognizes her, makes room. She doesn’t swim so much as allow herself to be carried, the sea pressing where she leans, turning her gently when she turns her thoughts, each movement answered by a subtle shift of tide, a whisper of magical control as intuitive as sailing herself had been, such that she isn't even aware she's doing it. It is not the rush of speed she knows from cutting waves, but something slower, intimate, like being held beneath the surface of her own mind, and the delight of it blooms wide and bright in her chest as she drifts, suspended, finally inside the element that has always known her best.
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.
