her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
The Ark considers his answer, then gives a small nod. For all the ways she’s learned to be cunning, a year in this body hasn’t yet put her on equal footing with the particular machinery of Jack’s mind, and there’s no shame in knowing where another person has already mapped the water more thoroughly than you have. "I suppose poison’s relatively easy to contend with anyway," she says with a faint sigh. "No sense in forcing anyone who wants you dead to get more creative with their efforts."
The thought of other ships, though, brightens something in her expression. Her brow rises, and the curve of her mouth begins to spread with slow, dangerous amusement. "All it would take is a bit of current against a rudder," she says, "to make it feel as though a ship were actively refusing its orders." Wind catching wrong in the rigging, water dragging a hull just off course, a helm turning heavy beneath a captain’s hands at precisely the wrong moment. She could say things aloud to another vessel, let the sea and air answer in small, inconvenient ways, and it would be enough. Enough for people to decide they’d seen exactly what they’d hoped to see, if they were already primed to see it.
As for wedding bells, The Ark laughs with him, the sound warm despite the sharpness of the thought. Jack has tied enough knots in his life to make sailors nervous, and done it well, but that particular one is not something she’s ever expected him to reach for. Her shoulders rise in an easy shrug beneath him, blue eyes narrowing with a pleased, calculating glint. "For as much drama as it would cause her if we did show up, I'm not sure there’d be anything quite as biting as you failing to show because you were marrying someone else." It hangs there between them, deliciously spiteful in theory, but The Ark doesn’t press for it to become anything more than that. Flora has earned every thorn the Captain might leave in her path, as far as she’s concerned, but she also knows how far Jack has come from allowing that particular wound to govern the course he chooses to actively encourage him to relapse now. Unlike Flora, the Ark wouldn't give anything to marry Jack.
"There are all sorts of jewellery stores in Torchline that I've yet to see," she hums wickedly; and if her eye for shiny things led those jewellers to the wrong conclusion, what of it?
The thought of other ships, though, brightens something in her expression. Her brow rises, and the curve of her mouth begins to spread with slow, dangerous amusement. "All it would take is a bit of current against a rudder," she says, "to make it feel as though a ship were actively refusing its orders." Wind catching wrong in the rigging, water dragging a hull just off course, a helm turning heavy beneath a captain’s hands at precisely the wrong moment. She could say things aloud to another vessel, let the sea and air answer in small, inconvenient ways, and it would be enough. Enough for people to decide they’d seen exactly what they’d hoped to see, if they were already primed to see it.
As for wedding bells, The Ark laughs with him, the sound warm despite the sharpness of the thought. Jack has tied enough knots in his life to make sailors nervous, and done it well, but that particular one is not something she’s ever expected him to reach for. Her shoulders rise in an easy shrug beneath him, blue eyes narrowing with a pleased, calculating glint. "For as much drama as it would cause her if we did show up, I'm not sure there’d be anything quite as biting as you failing to show because you were marrying someone else." It hangs there between them, deliciously spiteful in theory, but The Ark doesn’t press for it to become anything more than that. Flora has earned every thorn the Captain might leave in her path, as far as she’s concerned, but she also knows how far Jack has come from allowing that particular wound to govern the course he chooses to actively encourage him to relapse now. Unlike Flora, the Ark wouldn't give anything to marry Jack.
"There are all sorts of jewellery stores in Torchline that I've yet to see," she hums wickedly; and if her eye for shiny things led those jewellers to the wrong conclusion, what of it?
sweet and right and merciful, all but washed in the tide of her breathing
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.
