Olivia Carrington was a familiar sight, stumbling along dark streets en route to the family home. She was in no hurry to get there, and perhaps that's why she often opted for walking over a carriage--though the latter would certainly be less embarrassing. This night, she was particularly far gone, often holding the sides of buildings as she meandered toward home.

The woman's breath fogged the air in front of her, and her nose was red from the cold. Fortunately, her extremities were all covered! She held her arms close to her body, a bottle enclosed in one hand. She didn't need more alcohol, even at home, but she'd rather be safe than sorry. It didn't cross the woman's mind how sad this fact was.

She hummed to herself as she walked, and if one listened closely it sounded an awful lot like a sea shanty. Any question as to what she was singing became clear a few moments later when she murmured under her breath, "What shall we do with the drunken sailor? What shall we do with the drunken sailor?" It was almost astonishing how much of the words she knew to the song because she kept going for some time, all the while unaware of her surroundings for the most part.

That was, naturally, a bad idea. Olivia wasn't oblivious to the things that happened around Whitby, though she may as well have been considering her constant state.