My body's cold my guts are twisted steel

[spindleform]

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[batshitscary]

*The lighthouse is ceaseless, its beacon comfortingly rhythmic and dependable. At first it only seems like a trick of the light, his weary eyes unused to contrast between the high beam and the utter blackness. It starts as a spattering of black silhouettes - they last only for a moment and, as the cycle starts anew, they disappear.*

[spindleform]

*He knows he'll feel them before he really sees them, but it's hard to judge the lowering temperature out here at the mercy of the brine-heavy wind. He pinches the diadem between his fingers, and stares intently at where he thought he had seen something, waiting for the light to come around again.*

[batshitscary]

*As the light spins back it reveals nothing but open, sea-misted air for miles.*

[spindleform]

*He lets out a breath, dropping his chin to his chest to repeat to himself again what he wants to say, hoping repetition will make him braver but honestly finding it makes him more and more afraid.*