In a former life, Chéri had been fishfolk. They had spent a great deal of time wrapping and unwrapping, scrubbing, pulling, pushing and just waiting for an eternal amount of time, which had turned into almost a sort of meditation so whenever they felt overwhelmed, they came here and listened to the sea. Very few things were familiar to them in Whitby and one of them was the waves. Different water, different ways to go about it but, at the end of the day, waves were waves and they understood their language. 

They were sitting down on the beach, covered in the anonymous brown suit they had taken to wear for security reasons while they roamed Whitby, their wrists on their knees, their green eyes on the water. Normally, their body was so filled with energy, they could barely contain it, but today they had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, it seemed and their mood just didn’t improve. And there was little they could do about it. Talking was hard, even beyond the linguistical aspect and they weren’t much one for talking anyway. The small wound on their thigh hurt, so dancing wasn’t a thing either, so they started to sing.