Ankyra Sound spiral your vertigo, signals that flash and beat

Bright and early and with malice aforethought, Caiaphas cast off from her grotto in the direction of Donnelaith, toting with her the measly two advocates she had in her ambitious quest after strife. 

Shortly before her departure, she'd acquired some coral root (a sedative), a psilocybin mushroom cap and some mysterious volatile substance (likely something she'd used as a binding agent) and mashed it all together, forming a viscous, downright unpalatable paste. Afterward, with Vlad as her lickspittle assistant, the wench had pinned Lusca to the sands and forcefully smudged the blend 'neath her tongue. 

With no hallucinogen tolerance to speak of, the effects immersed her tiny body within the hour––a slow vignetting euphoria at first, closely followed by conjurations of closed-eye visuals and the groggy blurring of all fleshly sensation. Colors came alive! The earth breathed against the soles of her feet! The seawaves roared full belly-laughs as she swung sloppily around the sound at a ground-eating lope, drifting in and out of a straight line, her vision swimming like a shoal of fish as she went.

Caiaphas' intent to keep Lusca laid up on Saltwinter's territory while she and manchild squared were MIA (an intelligent woman she was, knowing her snide peon would seek recourse from the wolves of Donnelaith were she to accompany the trio)... was without a shred of doubt executed with criminal genius. Get your captive high as a kite, that'll take care of it. Remarkably irresponsible. But genius.

After a bit of wandering, Lusca found herself sitting by the tide pools. Her paws were anchored firmly in the sand, but her body was floaty, a balloon tethered to a block of lead––cernuous and tilting as ghost fingers prodded her shoulder. She dazed, droopy-lidded, upon a crab for what felt like an eternity and faint audio hallucinations slurred in her ear. "You say something?" 

Nausea onset by motion sickness flipped her stomach and Lusca's mouth tugged back with a hrk, black lips receding over her teeth as a gobbet of bile gathered in her throat. Hunching over, she purged a beauteous pile of partially-digested matter onto the crustacean chilling in the bulk of her shadow, gums now pale and frothy from her sick. A look of misery sagged on her jowls for a moment, but disappeared once she noticed that her little trip-sitter had disappeared under her stomach contents (which, in her presently altered state, appeared before her eyes in mesmerizing technicolor). While trying to clear off the vomitus with her foot, she hissed behind her teeth like a shaken and cracked open bottle of ginger beer. "Siiiick." She spoke to the crab––which was, more specifically, just a rock. To any sober individual, that is.  

A sudden horror washed over her. Visible in her puke were bits of red shell. What was it that she'd had for lunch? Mmmmyikes. Seafood? She chewed her cheek. "Oh dude... That might've been an amigo of yours. I'm sorry." The girl rambled. "They died for a noble cause. Like, circle of life type stuff." On. "I didn't really enjoy them much anyway." And on. Pause. "Not a shellfish kinda gal, dig? Take it to the tramps, or take it to the chumps." And on.

Out loud, none of her words were intelligible, but instead a long yabbering series of delirious tongue-fumbles.