Stavanger Bay ` turn the page

First post! Anyone's free to throw their charrie in <3

Saltwater drenched a silvery coat, pale audits pinned back as Tempest shook herself dry. How had she gone from being happy, in a family, in a pack, where she belonged, to being a hopeless loner within the span of a year? Her posture sank dejectedly. Usually Tempest felt a spark of joy within her, even in the darkest of hours; she had survived losing her entire family, survived the guilt of fleeing a battle where her sisters were in danger, but even her ever-glowing demeanour did not survive such lonliness and isolation.

Red-orange oculi glazed over as the she-wolf lay down, resting her heavy head on her forepaws. Oh, what have I done? Why had she ever left?

She had searched so deep within herself, gone on the longest soul-finding journey, yet all she felt now was a penetrating, icy numbness spreading to her very core. Tempest did not feel like Tempest anymore. She did not feel like the wolf who had joyfully played with her sisters, the wolf who had questioned Valyn's treatment of her brother. She felt like a different wolf. Perhaps that was just growing up, but if it was, then all she wanted to be was a pup again.

Well, lying here won't get you anywhere. Standing up with revitalised energy, Tempest narrowed her eyes and gazed around her at the flora and fauna. Or, perhaps, not Tempest anymore. The name had never suited someone so sweet in nature; nothing about her could be described as tempestuous, from the generous way she treated others to the pure, unbroken shimmer of her coat.

Casting her mind back to long ago, to back when she had first arrived in that strange forest area, the nostalgic femme recalled one of the first wolves there she had met: a kind elder named Sirona. Whilst they had never been close, the kind wolf had stayed in her memory for a while—perhaps of the mundaneness of life there that any sort of interaction stood out, but regardless, the now-adult felt the name to be pretty and decided to honour her memory by taking her name. The original Sirona was likely dead, but the new Sirona felt a strange calmness at this thought. She felt serene, tranquil; she had perhaps found some form of internal peace.

Sirona now began to lick clean her fur, rinsing it of the tongue-burning saltwater inbued within the fibres. She thought nothing of Athena's declaration of how pretty of a name Tempest was; as far as Sirona was concerned now, she had no mother. Her entire family was gone, and her entire life lay here, wherever here was.