[ In the beginning, the world drowned.

She is given another body, but at least it is not nearly as ugly. She is soft-bodied and many-limbed, and if left alone, she will grow to swallow an entire ocean. The salt tastes right, on her tongue. (It is wrong that she has a tongue.)

Ordinarily, the sea is a comforting thing. The weight of the water bears her instead of that horrible spine. But this time, the sea betrays her, because she loves it. Because it loves her. It misses who she was, and coughs up this thing that she is not.

Upon the shore lies an ugly sack of meat, curled on her side, as if holding her toy. She is not alone. ]

Is this morning?

[ If you're in line for a caramel apple or donut, you might get to see a middle-aged, ordinary man accompanying a tall, statuesque blond in line ahead of you. When the blonde is given her cornucopia, she regards it with a look that is mostly dispassionate, as if she has seen this sort of thing many times before. ]

You appease them through me. [ It's not a question. ] You reek of detestable intention.

[ The woman turns to you, and fixes her golden eyes on yours. ] You are not hungry for what they are offering. Your appetite cannot be bought or sold.

[ Whatever that means! ]

[ Or, you might find her on the shore, accompanied by the same ordinary man. This time, she's quiet, her focus intensely trained on the waves. She does not move until a metal hand washes up on the sand. The hand barely lays there a second before she picks it up and bites into it, with the terrible crack of teeth breaking. She mends them. She chews. She swallows.

She takes another bite. ]

(ooc: these threads have the opportunity to be three-person threads with alecto, your character, and john gaius! let me know if you'd like to include john in the thread.)

[ You've reached the lighthouse. And you're not alone.

The wind howls through broken glass like a girl in mourning. Shards of that same glass litter the floor, mixed into that sickly-sweet blood. The person who loves Alecto would call that fruit punch; Alecto is proud that she remembers the silly name. She hates the silly name.

Alecto sits cross-legged in the center of this mess, damp with saltwater and covered in that same sticky green blood. Her ugly blond hair hangs in wet clumps, threaded through with seaweed and glass and bone. Her golden eyes are offset by a ring of pale, and in her arms, she cradles what was once a skull. Someone's meat-without-their-meat. She thinks of Anastasia. She would like to see Anastasia.

Whoever is trudging up the stairs is not Anastasia. Alecto greets the unwanted stranger with a scowl and a tilt of her head, as if to say: why have you come? ]