#olimongli

[olimongli]

hi i havent used tumblr since 2017 hashtag first post smiles!

[arewecoolio]

#4 intrigues me..

STOP IM STEALING THIS MEME, Christmas came early 🙂‍↕️ anyways Seasick is lowkey my white whale (pun not intended though the sea motif is prevalent throughout this story). Honestly out of all my WIPs this one is probably the best named.

So quick overview it is an original story also sort of set in the same world as the rest of my original WIPs: an heiress is tasked with making a two month journey by ship to what is the fantasy version of Antartica because her father left her a vague and short message about showing up…maybe she goes overboard a week in. Maybe while she’s rightfully terrified of the ocean she strikes a deal with a siren to survive and maybe she doesn’t realize just yet what she’s given up by doing that (yes they do end up fucking). Snippet under the cut:

The song starts every dusk, she caught it through the vibrations of a ship sailing slow and bloated through her waters. A woman’s voice, a melody she hadn’t yet heard. The singing stops always before the song finishes and she aches to know the rest. It’s the third day of trailing through the waters, of waiting and shooing off other creatures for her song. When it comes tonight it’s clear, the woman is on the deck tonight, and Nemeia breaks the surface barely. Two gleaming eyes might be the only thing that those sailors could catch tonight from her, her black hair soaks and blends into the inky expanse of ocean. There’s no moon, but the lanterns catch on her little sailor. Dressed in finery, her focus remains on a journal, blissfully unaware of the predator watching and waiting. The song curls out of her, clear, soft, Nemeia knows the cadences of enough songs to know it’s a lullaby, or a love song.

But the melody isn’t familiar and she aches to know the words, to have her sailor finish the song made just for her.

Her sailor’s voice quiets as it always does at the end. Before the song ends, where Nemeia glides forward a hairsbreadth to catch the last notes of the song she covets.

She hums it back barely, the beginning of it all over again. The woman’s head snaps up from the journal up to the water, not quite where Nemeia is but better than most, a low curl of delight takes that perhaps she could lure her into the water. Briefly the thought flits in and out of her mind, but her interest in the song outweighs any interest in feeding on the woman. The woman stares a few moments longer, human-eyesight pitiful in comparison, shutting her journal with finality and disappearing from the edge of the ship.

Surely tomorrow her little sailor will finish the song for her. After all, Nemeia won’t capsize the ship until she does.