Ghost Lion Crag What fresh hell is this

Hunger. It gnawed at her as aliving thing would, as with exhaustion and pain.  Her gaze was glazed with dullness, her pelt ragged and thick with dirt and blood. One of her legs was mangled, and she could tell none of the damage due to the vast amount of blood and earth that covered it. One of her ears was torn into shreds, though her face had escaped harm, her body had not. 

Night was was falling quickly, and the distance to the isle seemed so much farther then it ought to. Still she stumbled on in the uneven footing, fresh blood seeping amount the dried as a sudden movement would open a barely stabbed over wound. Finally, she stumbled and fell, and on the wind she could scent a pack's distant scent, though which eluded her for a moment. 

This time, she did not rise, breaths laboured as she spread out in a slightly more comfortable position as she stared over her bloodied, filthiest pelt. She ought to clean it. But the thought of that had her even more exhausted, and thus she merely settled her head on her paws, ignoring the mangled leg spread out on one side. Tomorrow, she would deal with all this. Tomorrow.