Dragoncrest Cliffs is she drunk or does she just have bad taste?

The evening sky was brilliant; the setting sun had painted it in a myriad of fiery orange and gold, and rich shades of magenta, disappearing all too quickly past the horizon. Branwen lay stretched out at the shoreline of the freshwater lake as she watched, sand-covered and exhausted. The scent of the sea cloaked her, and beside her were several neatly-sorted piles; sea shells and rocks, and a particularly interesting stick. She may have chewed the stick a little.
It had been a good day, though, spent wandering along the beach, collecting whatever caught her eye. Once or twice it had accidentally been a crab, evidenced by several small punctures in her muzzle. She paid them no mind; the trade was fair enough, in her opinion. Even if she would not necessarily keep her little collection; over the next few days she would scatter them, well away from the ocean's shore. Just to add a bit of oddity, or perhaps magic if they were inclined to think that, to someone's day— no one but Branwen would ever know she had done it, but she was quite satisfied with that.