THE ARK
The smile in Jack’s voice draws one from her before she can quite stop it, crooked and private as her blue eyes catch on the slice of his face he turns back toward her. She's just about to ask whether he has any opinions on party planning beyond booze, when the pale thing beneath his boot shifts.
The Ark stiffens, her hand tightening against the gnarled trunk until damp bark presses ridges into her palm. There is no immediate flood of alarm in her thoughts, though, only a sharp flicker of surprise. From where she stands, balanced above the muck on twisted roots, it looks more like another piece of the swamp’s ugly collection than any real threat: bone rolled out of place, old death disturbed by a living man’s weight. The Feverlands seem full of such things, all carcasses and fog and half-swallowed remains, and she has not yet learned which pieces of landlocked rot are merely disgusting and which have apparently been waiting for permission to move. "I would have thought only Bassian would have had a skull thick enough to stand on," she calls, dry amusement beginning to thread through the words, but the rest never makes it out.
The skull splits open with movement—not cracking or breaking—but unfolding, as eight black, blade-thin legs thrust from beneath the bleached curve of bone and strike against the mire. In the span of a breath, the skull becomes something sharp and living, skittering fast along the tar’s edge toward the Captain, and The Ark’s smile vanishes.
The Ark stiffens, her hand tightening against the gnarled trunk until damp bark presses ridges into her palm. There is no immediate flood of alarm in her thoughts, though, only a sharp flicker of surprise. From where she stands, balanced above the muck on twisted roots, it looks more like another piece of the swamp’s ugly collection than any real threat: bone rolled out of place, old death disturbed by a living man’s weight. The Feverlands seem full of such things, all carcasses and fog and half-swallowed remains, and she has not yet learned which pieces of landlocked rot are merely disgusting and which have apparently been waiting for permission to move. "I would have thought only Bassian would have had a skull thick enough to stand on," she calls, dry amusement beginning to thread through the words, but the rest never makes it out.
The skull splits open with movement—not cracking or breaking—but unfolding, as eight black, blade-thin legs thrust from beneath the bleached curve of bone and strike against the mire. In the span of a breath, the skull becomes something sharp and living, skittering fast along the tar’s edge toward the Captain, and The Ark’s smile vanishes.
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.
