The Ark
The Ark does not miss the way something tightens Jack him, even if he does not name it. When he draws her closer she does not simply settle at his side; she turns into him fully, angling herself so that her body faces his and her arm can wind around his lower back with quiet possession, as if she is testing how he fits against her when the sea is not between them. The other hand roams without hesitation, fingers mapping the familiar geography of him in a new scale; pads brushing over the faint ridges at his abdomen, tracing the pale seams where blades or magic once found purchase. Towns and cities, that is where most of these came from, she realizes, and something in her mind sparks bright and defensive at the thought of crowded streets daring to lay claim to him again.
She does not scowl or bristle; instead there is a subtle tightening at her mouth, a sea-dark defiance that sits easily alongside her curiosity. If land is what shaped those scars, then land will have to reckon with her now should it ever try again.
When The Ark looks up at him it is with that crooked, knowing grin as she imagines as best she can what it might be like; market squares, narrow alleys, taverns thick with smoke and voices, eyes turning toward her, because they will turn, bodies and voices and disorder. She tips her chin slightly, water still drying in glints along her collarbones. "What am I supposed to say when asked my name? Or who I am?"
She does not scowl or bristle; instead there is a subtle tightening at her mouth, a sea-dark defiance that sits easily alongside her curiosity. If land is what shaped those scars, then land will have to reckon with her now should it ever try again.
When The Ark looks up at him it is with that crooked, knowing grin as she imagines as best she can what it might be like; market squares, narrow alleys, taverns thick with smoke and voices, eyes turning toward her, because they will turn, bodies and voices and disorder. She tips her chin slightly, water still drying in glints along her collarbones. "What am I supposed to say when asked my name? Or who I am?"
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.
