time to roll the dice, you know i'm the type
The Ark takes the tumbler, peering down at the cloudy swirl, and, wrinkling her nose, she lifts it to sniff and immediately shoots him a look. "Why don’t you at least make your medicines taste good?" she demands, as if this is a grave failing on the part of humans altogether. Nevertheless, she tips it back in a single swallow, determined not to let the bitterness linger, and only when the liquid is gone does she cough sharply against the back of her hand, eyes watering faintly. "The water we kept onboard in Torchline was never bitter."
When he suggests she sink back into hull and timber, the idea tempts her more than she lets on. She can already feel the familiar breadth of herself beneath them, the sweep of deck and mast and sail waiting to be inhabited fully. For a reckless moment she imagines casting off west without clearance, cutting clean through the Arclight on her own terms, letting salt wind scour the restlessness from her until they're back in Torchline where wounds can be cleansed and fights can be continued. The thought is sharp and intoxicating, but it is also, even to her, suspect.
She narrows her eyes slightly at the impulse, recognizing that the fog still clinging to her thoughts may be steering her poorly. Sailing off unannounced or plotting clever evasions of a telepath is less brilliance and more concussion, she thinks. So it is that with a decisive little breath she stands and instead and begins to peel off her blood-stained shirt, the fabric sticking faintly where it has dried. She glances at him then, sly and bright again despite the dull throb in her head. "If I do go into the ship," she says, fingers already working at the clasp of her bra, "you could place the coin half on a ledge. I could knock it off when I want to come back." The idea is practical, almost sweet in its ingenuity, before she almost immediately imagines rigging a glass of water above his bed that she could similarly knock off to get his attention. The threat is playful, edged with restored mischief, even as the medicine begins to creep through her system and soften the sharpest corners of the storm she’s been trying so hard to outrun.
When he suggests she sink back into hull and timber, the idea tempts her more than she lets on. She can already feel the familiar breadth of herself beneath them, the sweep of deck and mast and sail waiting to be inhabited fully. For a reckless moment she imagines casting off west without clearance, cutting clean through the Arclight on her own terms, letting salt wind scour the restlessness from her until they're back in Torchline where wounds can be cleansed and fights can be continued. The thought is sharp and intoxicating, but it is also, even to her, suspect.
She narrows her eyes slightly at the impulse, recognizing that the fog still clinging to her thoughts may be steering her poorly. Sailing off unannounced or plotting clever evasions of a telepath is less brilliance and more concussion, she thinks. So it is that with a decisive little breath she stands and instead and begins to peel off her blood-stained shirt, the fabric sticking faintly where it has dried. She glances at him then, sly and bright again despite the dull throb in her head. "If I do go into the ship," she says, fingers already working at the clasp of her bra, "you could place the coin half on a ledge. I could knock it off when I want to come back." The idea is practical, almost sweet in its ingenuity, before she almost immediately imagines rigging a glass of water above his bed that she could similarly knock off to get his attention. The threat is playful, edged with restored mischief, even as the medicine begins to creep through her system and soften the sharpest corners of the storm she’s been trying so hard to outrun.
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.
