Dragoncrest Cliffs I'm not sure what's worse, the waiting or the waiting room

With the tide low, Chacal had to stride much further out and away from where the tall bank of stones and driftwood marked the point where high tide pushed against the shore. The sand was dark and wet, and each pawstep squeezed the sand dry beneath her weight, before it darkened again, though with perfect little pawprints left behind in a straight trail along the shore, and toward the water. She cast her gaze along the shoreline where the water came in in waves, and in noticing no signs of a riptide, she chose an area which looked calm. On a slightly overcast day with only the calmest of winds, she felt she could bask in the saltwater without worrying about being tossed aside by the waves. 

The cold water would do some good for the wound she'd received when she, Erzulie and Haunt had tried to take down a stag in the same waters she now waded into. It had torn a jagged line from her shoulder to her temple, missing important arteries and her eye by a mere inch. The nature of a head-wound was to bleed profusely, but by now the bleeding had stopped and the scabbing flesh had been kept clean so that it might heal with less consequence. 

The first flush of saltwater made her wince, but more from the cold than the sting. By now, the salt water wouldn't cause her pain, but the cold did cause her some minor discomfort which she knew would drift away as she became accustomed to its temperature. She stood shoulder-deep in the water, so that every wave that came in would roll alongside her neck and over her shoulder, bathing the long, jagged line in caressing swells.