Shadewood rearranging deck chairs on the titanic

disoriented, she half drags herself, half walks into the comfort of the wood. alarm bells are ringing, dimly, and her vision tilts and grows blurry every so often. the trees are different, as is the ground, the smells, everything - she stops when she's only just within the protection of the trees. she fold into herself, heaving up sputtering mouthfuls of brine, before teetering onto her feet. 

a few steps further into the trees, and she stops, falling onto her rear. she's trembling, though she's not aware of it. she begins grooming a forelimb with care, and the action feels somewhat comforting. most importantly, it's something to focus on besides what's all around her.