Stavanger Bay The king and his men stole the queen from her bed

Cold. Cold and wet. It was all she had known for what felt like days. She was exhausted, laying prone on a piece of detritus, the rotting, bloated remains of a half eaten goat tangled amongst the mass. The meat was foul but kept her alive. The rocking sensation finally ceased and she lifted her salt encrusted head with a groan. Land. There was earth beneath her paws. 
At first, as she rolled slowly to her paws, she wondered if the sea had finally claimed her life. Saskia was not a religious wolf, She had no interest in heavens, hells, or spirits. But as she staggered up the secluded beach, dizzy, exhausted, and dehydrated, she realised what appeared like an afterlife was actually...a second chance. 
Her nose dipped and she could smell the faint, faded waft of other wolves. The wind shifted, and Pack-Scent met her nose. The russian would normally be apprehensive, even stanoffish, but these were not normal times. She was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. She lacked the strength to hunt and provide for herself, and snow and Ice still clung to the ground. No, she would simply have to hope there was enough hospitality to at least last till spring.