Dragoncrest Cliffs of war, of blood, of death, of beauty

wanlida. she hears someone calling her but struggles to put a name to the voice and even to the faces. thur? wildfire? no. too young. her mind is still sluggish and there is a part of eske that is aware of how very dangerous of a situation she's in — and not just because of the thing latched around her neck. furi and blixen. their names come to her too late and immediately another spike of adrenaline and anxiety washes through eske. the girls do not close the distance and she is thankful. "do not come near me." her warning is slowed and heavy and in trigedasleng. it's as if someone hit her reset button and she is no longer capable of forming the words in common tongue. she doesn't even try. she doesn't know if she's contagious, she doesn't know what it'll do if they come near her. would it hurt her or them? she wants to tell them about the dragon but even to her still half drugged brain it sounds ...impossible. delusional. "something is ...ah," she struggles to form the words in the common tongue. "on my neck." she pushes harder against the tree that's became her support beam and arches her neck to the side to show them. the fur at her nape smooths down as she manages that deep breath she'd been trying to achieve for however long between the time she awoke and now. she doesn't feel better. she can feel the press of the collar as she draws in the heavy breath and releases it just as heavily.