The Sentinels what if the storm ends, and i don't see you

Thundersnow. Strong winter snowstorms and blizzards commonly produce lightning strikes, a phenomenon referred to as 'thundersnow'. Lightning and thunder can occur with any type of winter precipitation - including snow, sleet ('thundersleet') and freezing rain.

 

skellige had gone, disappeared. so strong was her keening that she felt all the spirits must know of it! she was restless, and hurt in a place she did not know could ache. those willing and unwilling had gone from her, and she wept herself to sleep. she did not know it, but her lips mouthed a wrathful curse in the first of her nightmares.

the strangest of scents caused deirdre to rouse—it tickled her nostrils, and caused them to wrinkle. when her emerald eyes opened she could see only white. the world raged around her, and she rose to all fours. there was a fork of lightning in the distance, and deirdre watched it lash against a proud sentinel. it was not the first to be struck, but the first she witnessed. 

deirdre ran to her fathers grave. snow and smoke were prominent, and deirdre threw her head back to call to donnelaith to flee. i will find you, she promised. take the cubs and find shelter! she imagined she would die when the forest did, but knew now her responsibility to the family that remained was greater than this. but she could not leave him without saying goodbye, without asking, too, for his guidance. 

a tree broke before her, and barred her path. but another, still living and screaming in the wind, guided the forest nymph to safety, to taltos. 

toward the ocean she ran! toward where he rest. 

she arrived and sobbed. i am sorry, she whispered, i was angry, and wrong to be such a way; each has a right to their path, and i will not rob them that right. i was-- a tree fell, massive and large and causing other great ancient sentinels to fall. she swore she heard him, her father--and she found her legs, and shouted, i love you! before she broke into a run again. 

deirdre knew this forest as no other did. born to it, she had never left it for very long at all; but it did her very little good in the end, when all she had before her were cliffs and ocean. young as she was, she thought she had time, but when she turned donnelaith was aflame. she would die if she entered, and as she looked over the cliffs edge she felt she would die if she moved to the waters. 

but she wasn't given a choice as another tree fell, and this time as she looked back to the frigid seawater she saw the eye of emaleth, open and inviting, promising safety. alright, she thought, and she took one last leap of faith--and perhaps it was foolish, perhaps it would be the last thing she ever did!, but deirdre was nothing if not a girl who trusted openly, perhaps even blindly. 

some might say it was a fatal error. 

and once this occurred, the winds grew even fiercer! so fierce were the gales in this storm that the many of the sentinels toppled over, and caused a horrific domino effect. in the clouds, those who knew the face might recognize the visage of taltos, weeping. fire, ash, and smoke framed the snow-kissed tears that rained downward, and then came the rain of thundersleet. 

donnelaith is burning. 'tis the season for natural disasters! it is up to you if your character makes it out alive and survives, or perishes...
@Cas @Lotte @Muses @Starbuck @Witchhazel @Ingram 

He did not love Donnelaith. He did not love it's proud tall trees nor the spirits that bound it. He did not love the wraiths that he glimpsed from time to time, pushing and ebbing as they did against a boundary that Castiel did not believe in. He had promised to protect its inhabitants though, to defend them all the same against foes and this time, it was against the world itself. Witchhazel had been missing despite Castiel's attention and he wondered if she was somewhere within the forest. As the smoke rose around them and lifted the spirits of the forest to the heavens Castiel sought Deirdre. He couldn't find his ward and so he'd find his queen, thought he was at the very best a very only working out of duty and not true loyalty. 

He watched for a moment as the flames rose higher and higher, the woods cracking and tumbling down. Ahead he saw the pale queen as she hesitated. "You must!" Castiel was not one to give orders but in this case the sea was the only refuge they had. The massive wolf followed after the pale queen, swept out on similar currents. 

she sleeps as the forest burns. safe within the wet mould of an alcove deep within the grounds lit by fire, she feels nothing but warmth. she dreams of blurred faces, a pale woman, the sunlight, the sheer luminescence that just manages to escape the shadows of her birth home that fills her with such happiness. her haven does not last long and in a mere instant, the earth is set ablaze. her eyes are taken from her first as hot earth rains upon the girl, and she wails; letting loose a stifled cry that none will hear. she does not stop screaming as the fire engulfs her hair, her legs, her face. 

but she does not awake from her sleep.

it is within her dream that she burns, and she thrashes underneath the blackened soil, struggling to find solace. time does not exist as instinct begins the fight for survival; seconds, minutes, hours will pass before her struggle wears away and the sky halts it's assault upon her. witchhazel is numb as she lay in the rubble of rock and dirt; she does not feel the burns that will never heal, or the scars that will leave her broken and beyond repair. delayed breaths, a faint, laboured heave of her breast is the only indication that she lives; but she passes through the unconscious and the lucid, unable to gather the ability to bring herself from the scorching hell she is nested in. 

witchhazel lays steaming, unrecognisable between the battle of fire and life; dying.

She lay furthest from the heart of Donnelaith, where she could peer out from between trees to glimpse the wide stretch of the Honeyed Pasture. Weary, pleased by the cool weather, she found a little nook between gnarled roots of a towering tree, and rested her head for a spell.

Succumbing to dreams, she was disturbed to find herself alone upon a craggy peak, the wind whipping at her fur, snow billowing around her. A flash of lightening streaked across the sky, and a harsh crack tore through the heavens. Her ears flattened as she realized the gods were angry - even her father was angry - but she could not figure out how to appease any of them.

They were so angry! Snarling! Snapping! Choking her until she could no longer breath.

Waking with a start, Muses hacked and choked, struggling for air. The world around her was blackened by ash and smoke. Staggering to her paws, she tried to gather her wits, but could not make sense of North or South. She had one chance to break free of the darkness - do or die.

In her dream, a beast of flame and shadow rose from the ocean. His bones were made of stone, his eyes of embers. He set upon Donnelaith with teeth made of sharp rock and a tongue like the violent swell of the waves. What he did not consume he left burning, and what did not burn drowned.

Starbuck woke to the first scent of smoke, and to Deirdre's cry on the wind. The fire had yet to reach her den, but it was coming quickly, and she could hear the thunderous cracking of falling trees. Her animal heart wished to flee the woods for the safety of water, but her altruistic soul drove her into the fire, searching for those she who needed help. As she ran she called out, an animal yipping to wake those who she could.

Soon the smoke and overbearing heat choked her, and her voice quieted and her breathing became labored. Branches fell around her. The ground was a muddy slush. Scent failed her all but once, when the horrid scent of burning fur and flesh came to her. The fear that curled within her turned to terror, and she nearly fled. She would have, if not for the blackened wretch she found, half-buried in flaming earth.

Starbuck did not think, for thought would stall her. She thrust her nose into the burning earth and grasped the form by its neck, hauling it free from its tomb even as the flames licked her face and burned her muzzle. As soon as her grip was strong and the wretch was free (and oh, it was a wolf! it was a child!) she began to haul it back the way she had come.

Breathing became yet more difficult, and Starbuck's thoughts fled to adrenal nothingness. She ran, eyes streaming in the smoke, until the ground was even and open and her burned and heated paws found half-frozen water. There she dropped the child and coughed until breathing was easier. Then she drank the cold, cold water until she began to cough again. When her breathing returned yet again, she lifted her nose to the sky and howled and howled in her now-rough voice until she could do so no more. 

Only then did she turn her attention to the girl, nosing at her to see if she lived, then checking the extent of her injuries.

Got permission to pick up Witchhazel! Anyone else is free to find her after her howl as well.

"Dei!" Doe screamed, rushing through the trees. The burn of fire was new to her, but the woman quickly learned to dodge the orange tongues that tried to lick at her fur, that'd seemed so playful at first...

"Dei," she said again, voice hoarse and eyes streaming with tears. "Dei, sweet girl, where are you?"

There was no answer from the pale queen, but from afar, she heard the hacking cough of a living wolf - Muses, Doe thought, starting toward the sound, even as the distant, searching howl penetrated the storm. For a moment, she froze, head cocking in the other wolf's direction. Although it sounded as though help was needed, they were much further than Muses was now. Away from the red flower, perhaps, unlike herself and her dear friend.

She could not save Deirdre, but perhaps she could save Muses. It's how she'd have wanted it, she thought mournfully, turning toward the sound of her friend.

"Mew," she coughed, tearing through the blazing underbrush. Only the stinging sleet kept her coat from bursting into flames, and even still, she would be badly singed when the storm ended. "I'm coming, Muses, don't worry," she called, finally catching sight of the pale shewolf. A few more seconds of mad dashing, and they were together, two wolves against the fire and ice.

"Are you hurt?" Doe asked, unable to fully examine her friend for fear of leaving their backs ungarded. She could not kill the fire, could not even harm it - but she could jump out of the way, if she was wary, and she could warn Muses to do the same.

Gods were not privy to death, but mortals were. What then, was Muses, daughter of a demigod? Now was not the time to find out. Her squinting eyes watering, she peered bleary-eyed around her, trying to make sense of the shadows in the fog. What she could not see was fire, which was a good thing, as long as she did not wander towards it.

Coughing, her ivory coat now sooty and singed in a couple places, she staggered slowly forward, grimly hoping that she had started in the right direction. A howl that sounded distant, dampened by the wind and ash, caught her attention. Her left ear twitched, swinging out, and she adjusted her path, creeping towards it. Lifting her chin, she howled a warbled cry, trying to let others know that she was there, still alive. Flakes of ash drew towards her mouth, and she choked again, tongue curling in distaste.

Distracted for just a moment, she did not notice something falling towards her, and flinched only when it became visible out of the corner of her eye. A warm, familiar voice soothed her worries. Parched, fearful, she could only nod to reassure Doe, struggling until she could manage a raspy "Yes."

She had so many concerns, so many questions, but all she could do was remain close to the smaller female, silently hoping that she had a better idea of the way out - the way towards that initial, hopeful howl.

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Skellige’s absence was perhaps most keenly felt by his youngest brother, who depended on the shark-blessed Leviathan for direction. Several times a day, Szymon cast himself into the unforgiving winter Sea to beseech Her for guidance. Fearing the eldest Cairn’s wrath, the beta dared not leave the territory to search, but the staler the salt king’s scent grew, the more restless Szymon grew. The abrupt crack of thunder and flash of lightning drew his attention toward shore, cutting his swim short — but as he looked up, the gathering of clouds appeared to form a face. It was one he did not recognize, but in looking at it he espied two things: Deirdre, leaping from the forest cliff, her unmistakably alluring form cast in a halo of virulent flame; and the following silhouette of the brawny, chocolate-furred guardian, lit through with whiskey fire. Szymon had forgotten the male’s name, but as the sylph disappeared abruptly from view, his heart thudded violently in his chest and all attempts to recollect the bright-eyed wolf’s name fell to the wayside.

Swimming hard, “DEIRDRE!” he bellowed, and his jealous goddess roiled at the name of the other woman that passed his lips while he traversed through Her kingdom. She shoved him below surface, a particularly hungry wave catching him in a violent undertow. He rode it as he was meant to and resurfaced some distance later, but when he tried to seek again the sight of the witch queen, lightning shattered the sky, temporarily blinding him. Following the push of the waves, he struck out toward shore as his vision cleared.

The moment his paws touched down, he was sprinting, broad chest rearing out up out of the shallows as he ran toward Donnelaith. The forest was ablaze. Desperately he threw back his head and cast his call upon the wind, seeking his mate. It was an unfortunate truth that wherever danger lurked, Doe could be found snarling in its face. It was sheer luck that he found her beside Muses — the wolf Szymon automatically assumed was his “second wife” — and although he hadn’t taken the time to get close to the pale-eyed, pallid creature, he was prepared to accept her just the same. There were just so many cubs — he wasn’t comfortable around them, especially given how little they were and how…well, how Skellige’s they were. “Doe,” he murmured, frowning in concern at her singed fur. “I love you,” he reminded her, turning to Muses in the next moment. “Muses,” he said by way of greeting, tasting the foreign syllables and finding them not altogether distasteful. “What would you have me do?” The shock and urgency, it seemed, had shaken the stutter right out of him.

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