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.

Rosalyn almost didn't note Chacal as she passed by. She was caught up in thoughts of spring, and she'd found that she felt at least somewhat lighter with the return of lengthened sun. When the pirate first caught sight of the shape in the waves, she thought it was a beached seal. She turned with interest, but lifted her head and smiled when she recognized her daughter instead.

Maman said you had a battle in the water, Rosalyn said as she drew nearer and caught wise to what was happening. How many times had she bathed wounds in the salt like this? She could no longer count.

Do you want help? She wasn't as apt as her wife and, as she offered, she knew she likely couldn't do much more than the water itself.

Over the wash of waves that flanked her, she could not hear her mother's pawsteps on the sand but she'd felt the light warmth of eyes upon her. Between the waves that she sustained, to cleanse the trailing, superficial wound, she caught a glimpse of her mother's earth-wine pelt, and had smiled faintly, though she kept her lips pressed together tightly so she would not taste the saltwater. The waving of her tail would have been lost beneath the water's surface, but relaxed welcome would have shone in the posture of her shoulders. 

She turned to look to her mother over one shoulder, carefully though, so that the tender flesh might not tear. Saturated as it was, the proudflesh was tender and willing to allow her to move so that her mother could see the tear that split the skin from her temple to her shoulder.

But a battle? It had been a battle, but only until Erzulie had pulled away. At that point, the rest had become a poorly executed retreat. Come stand wit' me She invited, her voice rising and falling with the ebb and flow of the water around her. She was content to let the water cleanse her wounds- but she was happy to have someone share the waves with her.

She did not like seeing the injury but it looked to be healing. It was hard not to worry, and doubtless the cut would scar. Not a resemblance she'd have asked for.

Rosalyn came into the water and moved alongside, careful and slow. It is healing, she said, touching her nose to her ear affectionately. She then settled down into the shallow water, allowing the waves to buffet her and swaying with the movement as well.