[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?
[ Once more, the Omen leaps under their feet like she intends to throw her passengers from the deck. The question of whether the ship is even built to withstand speeds like this passes through her mind but the moment the thought forms, she dismisses it. It will hold – because without a ship, without a weapon, there's nothing to pierce through the heart of the storm. And that much she will do. She doesn't let herself feel any fear or hesitation, focusing instead on the warm hand enveloping her own frozen fingers. The noise is like no din she's ever heard before. It screams in her ears and batters against her but she finds that the sound filling her chest isn't the howling and screaming of the waves but the wild laugh of the man whose hand she's still holding onto.
Though it's through no sense she can name, Annaliese feels it when everything turns. The storm doesn't break, but it splinters into something less pointed, less calculating and she realizes with a dull thud that this had been her doing. Yes, with help but – she had been the one to make it so, hadn't she? For a second she feels loose and unmoored, the enormity of the moment sending her spinning off into the storm-blackened sky. She has the wild thought that the leftover winds might pick her up and sweep her away.
Then an errant wave crashes over the deck and the shocking cold of it washes over her feet. She turns to Sheyd just in time to feel the warm brush of his lips against her hand and that combined with the warmth with which he says her name makes her heart feel somehow loose and anchored in her chest all at the same time.
She opens her mouth to respond – but what comes shaking out of her instead of words is a breathless, disbelieving laugh. ]
To my liking– [ She sweeps her storm-tangled hair back from her face so she can gaze up at him. Her eyes are wild and overbright, just like the smile she's struggling to keep under control. ] Yes! It was– incredible, unbelievable, to think I could have ever–
[ Another gasping laugh interrupts her and before trying to speak again, she dips her head, offering her best approximation of a curtsey that she can manage while one-handed and so bedraggled by storm and sea. ]
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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
Though it's through no sense she can name, Annaliese feels it when everything turns. The storm doesn't break, but it splinters into something less pointed, less calculating and she realizes with a dull thud that this had been her doing. Yes, with help but – she had been the one to make it so, hadn't she? For a second she feels loose and unmoored, the enormity of the moment sending her spinning off into the storm-blackened sky. She has the wild thought that the leftover winds might pick her up and sweep her away.
Then an errant wave crashes over the deck and the shocking cold of it washes over her feet. She turns to Sheyd just in time to feel the warm brush of his lips against her hand and that combined with the warmth with which he says her name makes her heart feel somehow loose and anchored in her chest all at the same time.
She opens her mouth to respond – but what comes shaking out of her instead of words is a breathless, disbelieving laugh. ]
To my liking– [ She sweeps her storm-tangled hair back from her face so she can gaze up at him. Her eyes are wild and overbright, just like the smile she's struggling to keep under control. ] Yes! It was– incredible, unbelievable, to think I could have ever–
[ Another gasping laugh interrupts her and before trying to speak again, she dips her head, offering her best approximation of a curtsey that she can manage while one-handed and so bedraggled by storm and sea. ]
Thank you...!