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.

we haven't had one, travesty

Like Erzulie, on occasion, Rosalyn stalked the beachfront moor that had been their home.  She was glad they had left; the rain had turned the place into a grey, sodden waste, and the waters churned in various dips across the stretch.  Their old den was not yet submerged, but the waters encroached, and she would have been afraid to leave the children so close to it's reach.

She marked as she went, for their intention was to return when the sun did.  The scent would not hold well, but it would do enough to perhaps deter the worst of them.  The rain was not keen on letting any claim keep.  It was as though it chased even the memory of them from here.

On her return, she could not help it... she passed by the bay again.  It was on her mind less often now, having grown content with the life she and her wife had formed here.  But curiosity drove her to see what the rains had made of it, and as she stepped on the familiar sand, she saw the sea had swelled with the power of the downpour.  It was good their daughers and son were not yet old enough to yearn for her, because testing her now would be a fatal mistake, the pirate felt.  

Unaware of the presence lurking in the dens behind her, Rosalyn sat, feeling the ever present rain water slick over her fur as it continued to drench her.  It had opened up again with renewed force when she arrived, but she was already too wet to care.  She'd watch the sea for a while, drink it in, and then depart.

Rain was often a blessing in the middle of a blistering summer. This storming weather was an anomaly however, and she knew she had to be careful. Hungry as she was, Stryx did not trust the sour smell of the rat carcass nor how corpulent it was; its flesh was soft and she was starving for it, almost to the point where any meal would be worthwhile to gorge upon, but at the same time Stryx knew her humours would easily malign with a cursed meal such as this.

She hoisted the rat up by the head (as it seemed like the only truly solid piece of it) and prepared to toss it back in to the deluge. Her teeth easily sank in to the putty-like neck; the slightest lift cleaved through the vertebrae and with a sickening plop the rat's body slid messily away from it, opening like an over-ripe fruit with its skin loosened by the water it had soaked within. The resulting mess discolored her limbs with a purple-brown sludge; blood having been fouled and blackened by rot.

The smell immediately washed through her. A stabbing to the nostrils. A corrupting influence — one which she had been trying to avoid by discarding the rat, and had she understood the level of degredation that the pooling water could cause, she would merely have dropped the slovenly carcass and buried it beneath her instead. She rose to her feet hastily and letting the skull drop from her mouth and dove from cover, seeking a puddle to wash out her mouth with.

So furious was her reaction that Stryx failed to notice the wine-dark woman passing by; she could not smell anything except the rank rot scent of the carcass, and she was trying to focus on any thought beyond the bizarre muddy feeling of the corpse which had fallen to pieces in her mouth - it was not working; she gags and coughs as rain pools against her tongue, head up, eager to drown the flavor out.

If the woman's movement didn't alert Rosalyn, the retching sure did.  The pirate whirled, then wrinkled her nose in distaste.  Fortunately, if there was a smell to it, the rain would soon take care of it.  Pleasant night for company, she said, tone conveying that the opposite were more likely.  She was annoyed to be interrupted in her thoughts, though after a moment of searching, she recognized Stryx.

Oh.  You're the... healer?  It was a guess, gleaned from her stay while Raleska was here.  Rosalyn had been closed off with the children most of the weeks following, Chacal born just a few days later, so she hadn't spoken to her directly.