The Sentinels are you cussing with me?

The copperhead wound her way along the coastline at an impractical rate, her long-limbed strides devouring the landscape as she hiked along; there was no destination in mind, but the tempo of her steps seemed insistent, confident. She flowed from one place to the next — deftly striding across the barnacle barbed stones or softly crunching over sand. The sand gave way to soil, reeds of brine-scented grass, and the occasional tree, until her nimble figure came to an abrupt halt within a small copse of woodland.

The girl's ribs undulated softly with the beat of her panting, but she did not stop for long. The scent of wolf crept up on her; it was hard to track anything with the strong ocean smell everywhere, although she ducked her head and attempted to locate the scent all the same. The further she went the more bent and broken the forest appeared to be: numerous trunks were caught sidelong or, in some cases, were shattered and moss-hewn where they sat rotting.

Nuet pranced along for a few more steps before feeling eyes upon her, and stopped - frozen, cautious - with one paw raised, and chuffed loudly at her surroundings.