The Sentinels Where the red fern grows.

All it had taken was one poorly timed piss for Fern to lose track of the whole doggone tribe of Redhawks! She'd only just been welcomed in by Colt when the decree had shot through the ranks: the pack was migrating and you were either moving ass or leaving. Thinking to herself that this was something fun to take part in, Fern had agreed to follow — but then she'd never expected the bad luck of eating from a wayward cache, or the vile mess that would accompany her indegestion. First there had been piss, sure, but then... There there was so much more. By the time she'd cleaned up in the lake, the pack had been on the move for a few days.

No sweat, right? This was Fern. The esteemed do gooder of the Blackthorn family, herder of puppies, the first of her name and the best at hunting down her family members. 

Wrong.

There was no way for her to know for sure what the route was going to be. She made some estimations, got a little carried away on a few of her little hunts to keep satiated, and before long poor Fern had gone the way of the seagull, not the Redhawk. The full breath of the ocean was before her now — and she, like some mighty warrior princess, stood proudly upon a heavily forested ridge that felt like the complete back-end of the world. It smelled like bird poop for crying out loud!

I could go backwards,  she plotted out loud while watching some gulls swoop between warm air currents, or I guess I could... Follow the coast... She tilted her head as one of the birds dropped something, aiming for a large rock on the beach below, only to have its quarry land squarely in a wave. Or, fuck, I don't... I don't know. Damn it, Colt. Yes, because this was his fault.