time to roll the dice, you know i'm the type
The Ark grins against Jack's mouth, wolfish and bright, teeth grazing his lower lip as his hands roam and claim without hesitation. The mischief in her eyes deepens at his answer, pleased by the layered truth of it, by the way his voice roughens when it’s meant only for her. Water curls around their boots, licking at leather and pooling against the legs of overturned chairs, and still she feels nothing like retreat. If anything, the rising tide feels like applause. When Bassian calls out she breaks from Jack as the room lists more sharply now and the bar groans in protest. She kicks through the water as she moves, sending up little splashes that catch the lanternlight, her boots careless against the spreading flood. Passing the doorway, she flashes Bassian a blinding smile, all white teeth and wicked gratitude.
Outside, the night is loud and raw, the fight having spilled onto the pier where fists still fly and glass shatters against warped wood, the Exchange alive with the reckless joy of men who have not yet learned when enough is enough. That's when a bottle arcs through the air, careless and imprecise, not aimed with purpose at Jack or any of his crew but thrown in the heat of it all such that his telepathy will have no reason to latch upon it. It whistles past shoulders and swinging arms, missing its intended target by a country mile before catching the dim light and striking The Ark square at the hairline with a sharp, ugly crack.
For a heartbeat nothing changes. The waters of her mind remain white-capped, still churning with the leftover froth of lightning and laughter and salt. She does not stumble immediately, or even cry out. The broken glass falls away from her and the noise of the fight continues before everything inside of her stops. The swell that had been crashing against her shores goes utterly still as if the sea itself has forgotten how to move. It is a stillness so complete it feels wrong, a horizon frozen mid-storm. Her smile remains on her lips as she turns back toward Jack, but the colour has begun to drain from her face, pulling pale beneath the red of her hair. "Jack?" she says, and the word is distant, as though spoken across fog.
A sudden spurt of blood breaks from her hairline, bright and shocking, beading instantly down her temple and over her cheek, the same vivid red as her hair but thicker, heavier. It runs in quick, warm rivulets, tracing the curve of her jaw and dripping from her chin onto the wet boards below. Her knees soften, and the frozen sea inside her holds for one more impossible second before everything goes dark and her body gives, the strength leaving her all at once as she collapses toward the listing planks and the salt-slick night.
Outside, the night is loud and raw, the fight having spilled onto the pier where fists still fly and glass shatters against warped wood, the Exchange alive with the reckless joy of men who have not yet learned when enough is enough. That's when a bottle arcs through the air, careless and imprecise, not aimed with purpose at Jack or any of his crew but thrown in the heat of it all such that his telepathy will have no reason to latch upon it. It whistles past shoulders and swinging arms, missing its intended target by a country mile before catching the dim light and striking The Ark square at the hairline with a sharp, ugly crack.
For a heartbeat nothing changes. The waters of her mind remain white-capped, still churning with the leftover froth of lightning and laughter and salt. She does not stumble immediately, or even cry out. The broken glass falls away from her and the noise of the fight continues before everything inside of her stops. The swell that had been crashing against her shores goes utterly still as if the sea itself has forgotten how to move. It is a stillness so complete it feels wrong, a horizon frozen mid-storm. Her smile remains on her lips as she turns back toward Jack, but the colour has begun to drain from her face, pulling pale beneath the red of her hair. "Jack?" she says, and the word is distant, as though spoken across fog.
A sudden spurt of blood breaks from her hairline, bright and shocking, beading instantly down her temple and over her cheek, the same vivid red as her hair but thicker, heavier. It runs in quick, warm rivulets, tracing the curve of her jaw and dripping from her chin onto the wet boards below. Her knees soften, and the frozen sea inside her holds for one more impossible second before everything goes dark and her body gives, the strength leaving her all at once as she collapses toward the listing planks and the salt-slick night.
time to risk my life, not afraid to die, i'm a straight up villain
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.
