THE ARK
The Ark comes down after Jack with one hand curled around the rope, the other keeping his old shirt from catching too badly against the damp line. It hangs loose around despite how beneath it the leather of her trousers fits close to her legs, far too new still to have earned the sort of damage this place seems determined to hand out. Her boots disappear into the sludge as soon as she lands and the sensation makes something in her pull tight. The fog is thick enough to erase the edges of the world, and she can’t help but look out at the bubbling black stretch ahead and imagine the broad belly of her hull dragged down into it: tar swallowing her keel, climbing her sides, setting hard around her until there is nothing left to do but wait for the swamp to finish claiming what it has caught.
The thought is ugly enough that she shifts her footing immediately, as though that might dislodge it. "I can see why caches are placed out here," she says, her voice low and grim beneath the humidity. No one comes looking at a place like this unless they have a reason, and anyone foolish enough to wander through it by accident is unlikely to get close enough to find what has been hidden before the pits find them first.
Jack had offered to let her remain aboard, and while it had been a reasonable suggestion, probably the sensible one, standing safely on the deck while he went down alone hadn't felt like an option she could stomach. That doesn’t make the Feverlands any less revolting now that she is here, though.
Her mouth twists as another bubble breaks somewhere ahead of them, and, raising a hand, she draws a narrow stream of saltwater that ribbons out through the air, clean and bright against all that black, and she sends it arcing down into the nearest bubbling stretch of tar. For an instant, the surface reacts violently: the sludge spits and hisses around the water, hot enough to throw up a thin veil of steam, but it doesn’t loosen. It doesn’t thin. The saltwater vanishes into the blackness as though the pit has simply swallowed it whole, leaving a cold wind disturbing the dark waters of the Ark's mind.
The thought is ugly enough that she shifts her footing immediately, as though that might dislodge it. "I can see why caches are placed out here," she says, her voice low and grim beneath the humidity. No one comes looking at a place like this unless they have a reason, and anyone foolish enough to wander through it by accident is unlikely to get close enough to find what has been hidden before the pits find them first.
Jack had offered to let her remain aboard, and while it had been a reasonable suggestion, probably the sensible one, standing safely on the deck while he went down alone hadn't felt like an option she could stomach. That doesn’t make the Feverlands any less revolting now that she is here, though.
Her mouth twists as another bubble breaks somewhere ahead of them, and, raising a hand, she draws a narrow stream of saltwater that ribbons out through the air, clean and bright against all that black, and she sends it arcing down into the nearest bubbling stretch of tar. For an instant, the surface reacts violently: the sludge spits and hisses around the water, hot enough to throw up a thin veil of steam, but it doesn’t loosen. It doesn’t thin. The saltwater vanishes into the blackness as though the pit has simply swallowed it whole, leaving a cold wind disturbing the dark waters of the Ark's mind.
everything I want you know i'm going to get it
whether it's your fame or your cableknit sweater
you might've done it first but I know i'll do it better
whether it's your fame or your cableknit sweater
you might've done it first but I know i'll do it better
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.
