Wheeling Gull Isle the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking

pebbles and debris dig into her side, tearing her pelt and skin as she is dragged along the shore. she is unaware of this as much as she is unaware of the male that tugs her back, back from the sea and the storm. blood streaks the rocks she passes over, yet in the darkness and the rain, they are easily missed, almost invisible. she was an unmoving lump, a deadweight, and would easily pass as dead were it not for the slightest movement of her chest. conscience would come later, and with it pain and fear, but for now, it is unwelcome. she is not aware of the woman, not aware of anything, and won't be for a while yet.