aim high, swing hard, leave it out there, no regrets
The Ark raises a brow, her head tilting with a patience that feels less like correction and more like the slow turn of a tide deciding which way it would rather pull. "I never said I couldn’t freeze it," she murmurs, amusement threading low through the words as her gaze slides from Nova to the sphere between them. "You just saw me do it." As if to prove the point again, her fingers curl slightly, and the thin shell of ice surrounding her own orb thickens with a muted, resistant sound, the blue-green water inside slowing until jagged fractures spear outward across the surface. The ice splinters into sharp, deliberate ridges, answering Nova’s earlier display with something less playful and more predatory, crystalline teeth catching the light before the structure settles, perfectly suspended, cold and dangerous and entirely under her hand.
Still, when Nova’s snowflakes drift down and vanish against the deck without clinging, without leaving bright little insults tucked into the grain, the Ark’s attention follows them all the way to their harmless end. A small hum of appreciation slips from her throat, warm and approving, and the ship beneath them seems to exhale with the same quiet satisfaction.
Her eyes turn then toward the ocean, and something in her expression shifts, not softening exactly, but deepening. The salt air moves through her hair, red strands lifting and settling against the white linen at her shoulders, and when she sighs it’s with the fondness of something old recognising itself. "Fresh water like yours has its merits," she says, watching the sea beyond them, "but I’d take the salt water of the ocean over it any day." Her shoulder lifts in a small, easy shrug, the danger of the ice still held neatly between them, waiting on her whim. "I don’t mind working a little harder to freeze or boil it."
Still, when Nova’s snowflakes drift down and vanish against the deck without clinging, without leaving bright little insults tucked into the grain, the Ark’s attention follows them all the way to their harmless end. A small hum of appreciation slips from her throat, warm and approving, and the ship beneath them seems to exhale with the same quiet satisfaction.
Her eyes turn then toward the ocean, and something in her expression shifts, not softening exactly, but deepening. The salt air moves through her hair, red strands lifting and settling against the white linen at her shoulders, and when she sighs it’s with the fondness of something old recognising itself. "Fresh water like yours has its merits," she says, watching the sea beyond them, "but I’d take the salt water of the ocean over it any day." Her shoulder lifts in a small, easy shrug, the danger of the ice still held neatly between them, waiting on her whim. "I don’t mind working a little harder to freeze or boil it."
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.
