iza stoops to clean vomit from her wrists.

she has wound her way between the sea and the territories which border it, pushing herself to the end of all limits. fatigue has set in, and it is hard to force her legs further.

the nausea gives way at times to sharp, unabating hunger. iza digs clams from the sand, pulls urchins from stones, raids nesting birds for their eggs.

but it is not enough. she needs meat. fresh and hot.

the land goes to gentle waves here, a rolling terrain which showed some signs of being previously inhabited. iza enters, finding herself among structures overlooking the sea, though she will never know them as lodges.

they stand empty, a village of ghosts.

iza finds the largest and lies down to sleep, gone at once to the demands of her aching body.