Seaside Moors firewater

The woman introduced herself with a peculiar sounding name, something that stirred the young girl in the pit of her stomach. She preferred the shortened version that was offered shortly after. Then, the siren figured that it was best if she offered her own name, so her mothers weren’t told what a rude child she was later on. “I’m Regin,” she said and then after a second of thought, “but Gin is fine.”
 
“Don’t they bite you?” the young girl then asked, taking a step closer to squint at the crawling arachnids that were moving around on her dark coat. Regin herself had been bitten more than once by one of the spiders that had crawled through their den in the middle of the night. It had swollen and left an itch for several days.