wish I could bottle the taste
The Ark doesn’t move toward Kaseil immediately, not when the distance between them still has room to be shaped, to be used, and instead her path bends just slightly, subtle as a shift in tide, until it brings her alongside a boy she recognizes from the Grey Road, all sharp edges and quick hands and the kind of hunger that never quite leaves the bones. Her fingers catch lightly at his sleeve as she passes, not enough to startle, only enough to redirect, and when she tilts her head for him to come closer it feels less like a request than the quiet pull of something deeper.
Her mouth brushes near his ear, her voice low and close, something offered rather than explained, and whatever she gives him lands quick, because his grin spreads fast and easy, all teeth and understanding, his nod sharp before he peels away from her like a wave breaking from the hull. She doesn’t watch him go, because she already knows where he’ll surface, her attention drifting back toward Kaisel with the same loose ease, her steps carrying her just a little closer, just enough.
The change comes all at once.
Wind tears through the marketplace in a sudden, violent rush, not the wandering breeze of a wet day but something abrupt and misaligned, shoving bodies sideways and rattling carts hard enough to send their contents clattering, canvas snapping, voices rising in startled protest as the air turns rough and uncooperative. It hits her a moment later, catching her broadside, and she lets it take her, lets it fold her balance out from under her in a way that looks far less deliberate than it is, her shoulder striking first before the rest of her follows, breath leaving her in a sharp, startled hitch as she goes down.
There’s a flash of movement at the edge of it; the boy, close now, too close, his hands quick at her side before he bolts, slipping through the chaos with practiced ease, gone between bodies and stalls as though the Fingers themselves have swallowed him whole.
The Ark doesn’t rise immediately, but instead she stays where she’s been thrown, the line of her body angled awkwardly against the stone, one hand braced but not quite steady, the other drawn in close as though she’s more shaken than she should be, her breath uneven in a way that carries just enough edge to it, her hair spilled forward to half-hide her face. The rain still refuses to touch her, beading and parting in the air above her skin, though it does nothing to soften the picture she makes there; caught, disrupted, something momentarily unmoored.
And beneath it, quiet and constant, there is that same pull she carries with her, the lingering trace of salt and distant water pressing faintly into the space around her, something unsettled and restless that hums just under the surface, pulling subtly at Kaisel to encourage him near.
Her mouth brushes near his ear, her voice low and close, something offered rather than explained, and whatever she gives him lands quick, because his grin spreads fast and easy, all teeth and understanding, his nod sharp before he peels away from her like a wave breaking from the hull. She doesn’t watch him go, because she already knows where he’ll surface, her attention drifting back toward Kaisel with the same loose ease, her steps carrying her just a little closer, just enough.
The change comes all at once.
Wind tears through the marketplace in a sudden, violent rush, not the wandering breeze of a wet day but something abrupt and misaligned, shoving bodies sideways and rattling carts hard enough to send their contents clattering, canvas snapping, voices rising in startled protest as the air turns rough and uncooperative. It hits her a moment later, catching her broadside, and she lets it take her, lets it fold her balance out from under her in a way that looks far less deliberate than it is, her shoulder striking first before the rest of her follows, breath leaving her in a sharp, startled hitch as she goes down.
There’s a flash of movement at the edge of it; the boy, close now, too close, his hands quick at her side before he bolts, slipping through the chaos with practiced ease, gone between bodies and stalls as though the Fingers themselves have swallowed him whole.
The Ark doesn’t rise immediately, but instead she stays where she’s been thrown, the line of her body angled awkwardly against the stone, one hand braced but not quite steady, the other drawn in close as though she’s more shaken than she should be, her breath uneven in a way that carries just enough edge to it, her hair spilled forward to half-hide her face. The rain still refuses to touch her, beading and parting in the air above her skin, though it does nothing to soften the picture she makes there; caught, disrupted, something momentarily unmoored.
And beneath it, quiet and constant, there is that same pull she carries with her, the lingering trace of salt and distant water pressing faintly into the space around her, something unsettled and restless that hums just under the surface, pulling subtly at Kaisel to encourage him near.
'cause i'd drink up the look on your face
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.
