The Sentinels When the tequila runs out

She combed the beach absently, not really searching for anything in particular. Her stomach pinched with hunger but Sharkbait didn't bother trying to find food. She just wandered the shore, keeping back from the water but staying near enough to let the pounding surf soothe her restless spirit somewhat. The juvenile didn't particularly notice when the horizon darkened, the breeze picked up and the waves became choppy. But when the first rumble of thunder sounded from out over the open ocean, Sharkbait nearly jumped out of her skin and dropped into a fearful, quavering crouch.

She sent a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder. She had wandered quite far to the west and Skellige's den was so far away that she couldn't see it from here, even if she squinted. Her head snapped upward toward the ominous heavens and then to the left, where a line of trees seemed to beckon her toward their shelter. She clenched her toes in the sand and scrambled in that direction, aware of the scent markers that filled her nose as she sought refuge in the forest. She didn't (couldn't?) let it stop her from finding someplace to hide from the storm blowing swiftly inland.

In the gathering gloom, Sharkbait spotted a tree with a seam in the trunk, just wide enough for a small wolf like herself to slip into the hollowed interior. She leaped toward it, wedging herself into the small space and accidentally bumping her head against the low ceiling. A small grunt of pain escaped her as Sharkbait twisted, her back pressing against the damp wood as her big blue eyes peered outward to anxiously observe the encroaching sea squall.