Dragoncrest Cliffs i could never get the hang of thursday

adrenaline from the fight still throbs through her when she wakes, making her head feel foggy, like she's hungover. for a few moments blix just lies there, letting her brain sort through the details of yesterdays events -- the brute's appearance on the borders, furi and ephraim and opalia and her fighting, the girl, the rest of the invaders in the territory. a lot of it blurs together with only key details (the sight of furi slicing through the invaders throat, the feeling of the girl's slim leg in her mouth) sticking out. 

she's sore, her muscles tired and she bears some small lacerations from the girl's struggling against her, but nothing, in blix's mind, to write home about. rising slowly she figures she'll go find rose but more importantly, mallaidh, who, as she recalls, was hurt much worse. her worry turns to alarm as she follows her friend's scent, which is overriden by the sharp scent of blood. "furi," blix calls softly, approaching the collapsed figure in the surf. her wounds look worse than blix remembered; she watches tendrils of red swirl into the water for a moment, anxiously mesmorized. 

"mallaidh," she corrects herself, leaning down to nose at her injuries carefully. "shit. we need to call rose, yeah?"