Gilded Bay your bones are the spires of Stockholm

Paws heavy, quiet, as she moves. The sound of the ocean roars to her left, a constant since the beginning of her departure. She is loathe to leave her side now, where she knows she can count on each crashing wave to come after the previous. The few times she's had to move further inland, when something obscures her travel or for food she can't catch in pools left from the tide. Wynonna often enough tries not to go so far she can't hear the call of high side, and if at all, she refuses to leave the salty scent that has become apart of her own.

Moving along the bay, she discovers the pools low tide leaves behind, surrounded by rocky terrain, and she steps into the cold ocean water forsaken by the sea. Her toes squish in the sand but soon she's a me to pick through and eat a few small things left behind. Mostly things she's eaten before, picking through what she knows she can, before smacking her lips a few times and feeling her stomach rumble at the sudden onset of seawater. Perhaps used to it by now, she holds it down and searches, knowing she'll need to move inland sooner or later to quench her dry, salty thirst.