Stavanger Bay fromage.

The fey could have cursed her, and she had certainly begun to entertain the idea, as the clouds had gathered hours after her departure from the Willows and the resulting rain had not let up in many days now. She was a logical woman (for the most part) but even Stryx could not shake the feeling that she'd wronged Lumiya somehow in her departure, and the manifesting thread of guilt fed in to her suspicion that these rains were her fault, somehow.

Days later, as she's scoping out a beachfront she does not recognize while agonizing over how wet, cold, and hungry she had become, a not-so-distant rumbling drew her attention to the neighboring cliffs. As magnificent as it would have been to get close enough to watch the world fall apart, Stryx knew better than to linger within reach of the already riled seaside; she turned and fled to the shelter of trees along the inland edge of the bay.

What might have once served as an interconnected series of dens (for a host of foxes maybe, or a badger, something not quite her own size) pock-marked the soil. She nosed around at the mouths but discovered most of them had flooded. A few were inundated with debris. One, fortunately, housed a bloated rat corpse that bobbed beneath a piece of weathered arbutus, and she made sure to snatch that up hastily.

After this Stryx sought out a bit of shelter—a copse of mixed trees that had seen better days, shuddering beneath the torrent, barely more help than standing out in the open rain. She curled up against the scrub that struggled among their roots and started to work at the rat's softened flesh, but lost her appetite pretty quickly.