Blackfeather Woods it was easy, natural like breathing air

Flicker rumbled in discomfort, but now she could see the stranger before her. Then offering help, the woman took it with as much gratitude as she could feel in her drugged condition. “Gryfalcons.” She murmured. Although the images have all but vanished, broken by the fall, she had an affainaty for the birds. 

The woman allowed the fae to help her, and was glad to find only her pride had been hurt, and the recent wound on her right shoulder had opened up again, slowly staining her fur a slick red. Still delusional, she took a step forward, hoping to move away from the tree, her head spun and muzzle tilted up in a vain attempt to relieve the creeping nausea. “Dizzy,” she murmured, louder this time, and leant against the samaritan by her side, greatful for her presance despite her silver form being fuzzy and uncertain.