Stavanger Bay what is ruin if not the body becoming aware of itself

she is bored, to say the least. sure, she should be stocking for winter, or worrying for rannoch, but neither of those things holds her interest for long. instead, her thoughts wander back to that young wolf she met in the mountains. her thoughts are muddled and heady, strange and slightly, oh so very slightly familiar to her. her scars burn at the thoughts.

so she wanders to the sea. she knows what it is, but has never ventured that far west. when she finally reaches it, she marvels at the expanse of it for what seems like hours. she is a child — she runs to the sea and chases the waves, only to be chased back. it takes her a while to finally splash in the salty waters — it is salty, saltier than her. she makes the mistake of drinking it once, then accidentally time and time again.

she exhausts herself and drags herself to shore, shaking her now heavy and wet pelt in vain. she spurts through her nose time and time again; and it seems like nothing could expel the salt and water and saltwater from her nose. her head pounds from dehydration; she's no longer as mirthful as when she came, thoroughly grumpified as one could be. she stomps further inland, shaking and snorting time and time and time again. as her head swings she catches glimpse of something, someone in the distance. it is a wolf, but thin and sharp like a coyote. her brow furrows, then even more as she sees the strand of green wet weed in his mouth. nē!