Wheeling Gull Isle Look monsieur, where all the children play.

Ana was sitting outside of the den, staring out at the sea with an expression too pensive to suit her youthful features. She was far too young to remember her home, yet some part of her yearned for it all the same; some part of her knew her birthright.

The woman forged in madness and raven feathers;
the man wrought in iron and mother's blood;

Anathema was a creature of a different sort, spun from silk and sorrows as deep as the sea. But there was no denying her blood.

It was black waters in her veins.

And when she heard those pawsteps, when she felt the shudder down her spine at the realization of a foreign presence, it was black waters in her lungs, filling her throat, pouring from her eyes and she felt herself screaming. Blindly she snapped for his throat, his chest, anywhere, and the water was surging through her and she couldn't stop, she couldn't stop.