[se] wasn't born to be soft and quiet

but there's chaos brewing

underneath my skin

Melita waited, but with each passing second she wondered if she’d committed an error. Her movements were restless, head swinging back and forth at the sounds of ships rumbling and groaning over rippling tides and waves, the pull of tightened ropes, the sway of threads and strands. She pondered an escape tactic, if this was all truly a farce, already dead set in her mind about evasions – the youth could always scramble off the docks and pretend she was never here, or stumble around as if she were drunk, amble away, down roads and streets –

Then there was motion along the ship, a voice billowing over the surface, and she lifted her hand to shield her eyes, to stare upon the individual. Not someone she recognized, like the man she’d met beside the bar, her gaze catching over muscular abdomens and features, shrugging inwardly (no harm in looking). That’d she be questioned wasn’t a surprise; and strived to answer, to respond, as best she could; an effervescent voice, betraying her excitement, along the ebb and flow. “I didn’t catch his name. He told me to find the Ark.” They hadn’t exchanged namesakes, not while he was beating up another drunkard and while she was sneering at him. “Something about cannons?” If her accompanying smile was feral, wild, and savage, then so be it.

trying to hold in the storm

instead of making waves

MELITA