[Isn’t she a thrill, this golden girl, all flax, honey, silk, and nicety pillowing a jewel of ruthlessness he almost missed amid its setting. Hard as diamond, that. And as brilliant.
It’s charming, her invitation to dance, in the way that dolls and miniatures are charming. She cannot conceive of how small, how powerless, how inconsequential a thing she seems to him, the very stuff of brevity, here and gone in a blink. How absurd her gesture is, as though she has any power with which to sway the wind. Yet, she does. In their compact, in the painfully fleeting, bright burn of mortal life, in her unexpected brutality, she allures him. He finds he wants more of her and does not regret the desire.
Amused, Sheyd takes what she offers, laying a solid, long-fingered hand lightly over hers. His skin feels strikingly warm despite the ocean spray. Almost searing.]
To such delightful ends? Gladly.
[Sheyd wraps his fingers around hers, eyes a kaleidoscope gleam, and then faces the prow. His free hand shoots forward. With a surge of power around and beneath them, so does the Omen. His eye burns brighter and brighter, though his grin betrays nothing but eagerness and the pure joy of freefall.
Ahead, the demoness howls in her native tongue, a language human ears were not shaped to catch, though some study it. It probably goes something to the tune of, “SHEYD, YOU MOTHERF***ING DIPSH**!!”
In response, he laughs, and responds in the same Abyssal language, in his voice like sun-warmed sand and merciless summer:]
<Bad luck, bitch!>
[Ursula and Sheyd have both committed their magic. She can no more move out of the storm than he can end it. And so the Omen plows straight into her, plunging its bowsprit deeply and improbably into her chest, causing her to dissolve into shrieks and wild, dangerous, aimless waves.
The sea no longer claws at the ship with purpose. The depths no longer seek to claim its husk for their own. Without pause, the crew adjusts to the difference and continues its work to make fast the ship, keep her afloat, keep her keel steady.
Sheyd smiles at Annaliese over her hand, then bows to kiss her knuckles. The molten-gold glow has gone from his eyes, and one he now keeps closed.]
Annaliese. [Her name in his mouth still tastes sweet.] Was the work to your liking?
no subject
It’s charming, her invitation to dance, in the way that dolls and miniatures are charming. She cannot conceive of how small, how powerless, how inconsequential a thing she seems to him, the very stuff of brevity, here and gone in a blink. How absurd her gesture is, as though she has any power with which to sway the wind. Yet, she does. In their compact, in the painfully fleeting, bright burn of mortal life, in her unexpected brutality, she allures him. He finds he wants more of her and does not regret the desire.
Amused, Sheyd takes what she offers, laying a solid, long-fingered hand lightly over hers. His skin feels strikingly warm despite the ocean spray. Almost searing.]
To such delightful ends? Gladly.
[Sheyd wraps his fingers around hers, eyes a kaleidoscope gleam, and then faces the prow. His free hand shoots forward. With a surge of power around and beneath them, so does the Omen. His eye burns brighter and brighter, though his grin betrays nothing but eagerness and the pure joy of freefall.
Ahead, the demoness howls in her native tongue, a language human ears were not shaped to catch, though some study it. It probably goes something to the tune of, “SHEYD, YOU MOTHERF***ING DIPSH**!!”
In response, he laughs, and responds in the same Abyssal language, in his voice like sun-warmed sand and merciless summer:]
<Bad luck, bitch!>
[Ursula and Sheyd have both committed their magic. She can no more move out of the storm than he can end it. And so the Omen plows straight into her, plunging its bowsprit deeply and improbably into her chest, causing her to dissolve into shrieks and wild, dangerous, aimless waves.
The sea no longer claws at the ship with purpose. The depths no longer seek to claim its husk for their own. Without pause, the crew adjusts to the difference and continues its work to make fast the ship, keep her afloat, keep her keel steady.
Sheyd smiles at Annaliese over her hand, then bows to kiss her knuckles. The molten-gold glow has gone from his eyes, and one he now keeps closed.]
Annaliese. [Her name in his mouth still tastes sweet.] Was the work to your liking?