Ankyra Sound And I'm not wearing trainers

A storm was brewing, and not just on the horizon. Wylla watched from her place among spindly trees atop a shelf of rock that rose out of the water as dark clouds gathered above the sea. Her tail lashed cat-like and impatient behind her, and she was poised with all the predatory grace afforded an enranged huntress. She'd found blood on her thighs when she woke and went out to sea to bathe it away, then clambered up onto the rock to dry off, and that was when she noticed the storm.

The frosted hair on her neck and spine rose and she uttered a growl under her throat for the sky. She felt like she could take on a storm and drive it from their shore, illogical though it was. Things had quieted down in Grimnismal since Chusi's banishment and Arrille's subsequent treachery, but rather than soothing Wylla's ruffled feathers, her restless anger only grew. The sea witch in the grotto was pregnant, no doubt by Kierkegaard's loins, but it was too late to do anything about it short of sending the mercenary on his way, which would be irresponsible without further proof of his allegiance. The scent of someone else's estrus now lit the strand on fire, and sent Wylla into fits whenever she crossed its path, but so far she hadn't been able to locate Nyx, and she wasn't sure what she hoped to accomplish when she did, anyway.

Something inside her told her she had to act soon on the scent in the strand, but she couldn't sort her muddied thoughts enough to know what she should do. At length she turned to groom one of her damp hind legs, then sloshed down into the high tide to strike back toward shore as an ominous growl coursed overhead.

@Mahler as requested, sorry it's late!