Hushed Willows between these bones

set a few days before this thread!

skylla still smells salt.

it clings to everything; radiating off of his fur which had dried with it. or perhaps the smell of sea is so burnt into his nose he will never be rid of it.

it dredges up unwanted memories: of the drop, of the violent waves catching him and pulling him further out to sea. he'd been a strong swimmer ...but the tide had been stronger; the surge of the seastorm lulling him to unconsciousness until he was battered around like the sea's ragdoll.

skylla stops those thoughts before any single one can take root and demand his focus. not here, not now.

skylla follows the bare boughs of the weeping willow trees; drawing into the spindly forest with the hopes of finding shelter; however temporary.