aim high, swing hard, leave it out there, no regrets
The Ark watches the negotiation unfold with a slow, growing curve to her mouth, something pleased and faintly indulgent threading through the expression as Nova hovers at the edge of concession without quite stepping over it. There’s a rhythm to it she recognises, the push and pull of tide against shore, testing, retreating, returning again with a slightly different shape. "Well," she murmurs, tilting her head as though considering something far more complex than it is, though the answer settles easily enough, "that would sound perfect."
The distinction between glitter and sparkles doesn’t quite resolve itself for her, not in any meaningful way, and it shows in the faint narrowing of her eyes as she turns it over. "Nothing that’s going to linger," she decides at last, the word placed with quiet emphasis, less a rule than a boundary drawn cleanly through the space between them. When the shimmer gathers and dissolves again, her attention sharpens, following it not as spectacle but as behaviour, watching for what remains after the brightness fades. Her gaze flicks once around the room, a subtle check through wood and seam and air, and finding nothing left behind, she lets out a soft, low chuckle, the sound warm and satisfied. "That, I can live with," she allows.
The Ark turns then, already moving toward the doorway, the shift in her body mirrored faintly in the ship itself, as though the space is reorienting around her intent. The air changes as she steps out, the scent of salt and open water threading in stronger now, the enclosed warmth of the galley giving way to something broader, something alive. On deck, she draws in a breath, deeper this time, something that seems to settle through her rather than simply fill her lungs, her shoulders easing as though she’s stepped back into a truer version of herself.
When she turns back to Nova, her grin has sharpened again, bright with a kind of anticipatory mischief. "Can you do this?" Her hand lifts between them, and the air answers immediately, a sphere of saltwater gathering without a visible source. It hangs there, suspended and gleaming, its surface shifting with faint, contained currents that move without spilling, without breaking. She inclines her head toward it, then back to Nova, the invitation clear, expectant.
The distinction between glitter and sparkles doesn’t quite resolve itself for her, not in any meaningful way, and it shows in the faint narrowing of her eyes as she turns it over. "Nothing that’s going to linger," she decides at last, the word placed with quiet emphasis, less a rule than a boundary drawn cleanly through the space between them. When the shimmer gathers and dissolves again, her attention sharpens, following it not as spectacle but as behaviour, watching for what remains after the brightness fades. Her gaze flicks once around the room, a subtle check through wood and seam and air, and finding nothing left behind, she lets out a soft, low chuckle, the sound warm and satisfied. "That, I can live with," she allows.
The Ark turns then, already moving toward the doorway, the shift in her body mirrored faintly in the ship itself, as though the space is reorienting around her intent. The air changes as she steps out, the scent of salt and open water threading in stronger now, the enclosed warmth of the galley giving way to something broader, something alive. On deck, she draws in a breath, deeper this time, something that seems to settle through her rather than simply fill her lungs, her shoulders easing as though she’s stepped back into a truer version of herself.
When she turns back to Nova, her grin has sharpened again, bright with a kind of anticipatory mischief. "Can you do this?" Her hand lifts between them, and the air answers immediately, a sphere of saltwater gathering without a visible source. It hangs there, suspended and gleaming, its surface shifting with faint, contained currents that move without spilling, without breaking. She inclines her head toward it, then back to Nova, the invitation clear, expectant.
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.
