aim high, swing hard, leave it out there, no regrets
Understanding blooms across Nova’s face, and the Ark feels it the way she feels a shift in wind against her sails, subtle but undeniable, something aligning where before there had only been scatter and brightness without direction. Her mouth curves in response, slow and feline, the expression settling into place with a quiet satisfaction that needs no embellishment.
She inclines her head once, precise and certain. "Yes." It isn’t elaborated on, doesn’t need to be, the word carrying its own weight as it settles between them, as the boards beneath Nova’s feet seem just a touch more attentive for it. When Nova bounds closer, though, that ease tightens.
Not sharply, not enough to fracture the moment, but enough to be felt, a minute stilling in the Ark’s posture as crumbs spill and scatter across her floor, each one landing with a soft, irritating insistence that she tracks without moving her gaze. One brow lifts, the faintest suggestion of disapproval threading through the otherwise composed line of her expression, held there and then set aside with deliberate restraint.
"It’s why all of me is the way it is." The Ark replies, before extending her hand then, palm up, the motion unhurried, inviting without quite offering. The skin there isn’t pristine, not in the way it first appears; there are interruptions in it, faint seams and pale lines that cross and curve in patterns too deliberate to be random, freckles that cluster where no sun would favour them, marks that echo something larger, something structural. They don’t resolve easily into meaning, not without knowing what to look for, but they sit there all the same, mapped across her like a quiet confession of everything she'd endured over the years.
In the centre of her palm, saltwater gathers. It wells without source, clear and clean, a shallow pool that catches the light with a soft, shifting gleam. The air above it trembles, a faint ripple passing over the surface as though stirred by a wind that hasn’t touched the rest of the room.
She inclines her head once, precise and certain. "Yes." It isn’t elaborated on, doesn’t need to be, the word carrying its own weight as it settles between them, as the boards beneath Nova’s feet seem just a touch more attentive for it. When Nova bounds closer, though, that ease tightens.
Not sharply, not enough to fracture the moment, but enough to be felt, a minute stilling in the Ark’s posture as crumbs spill and scatter across her floor, each one landing with a soft, irritating insistence that she tracks without moving her gaze. One brow lifts, the faintest suggestion of disapproval threading through the otherwise composed line of her expression, held there and then set aside with deliberate restraint.
"It’s why all of me is the way it is." The Ark replies, before extending her hand then, palm up, the motion unhurried, inviting without quite offering. The skin there isn’t pristine, not in the way it first appears; there are interruptions in it, faint seams and pale lines that cross and curve in patterns too deliberate to be random, freckles that cluster where no sun would favour them, marks that echo something larger, something structural. They don’t resolve easily into meaning, not without knowing what to look for, but they sit there all the same, mapped across her like a quiet confession of everything she'd endured over the years.
In the centre of her palm, saltwater gathers. It wells without source, clear and clean, a shallow pool that catches the light with a soft, shifting gleam. The air above it trembles, a faint ripple passing over the surface as though stirred by a wind that hasn’t touched the rest of the room.
my blood is in the water and the sharks are takin' bets
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.
