Shadewood a setting sun, or rolling waves at sea

She is fortunate enough to understand the sounds she hears. They are words, although the language itself it accented and she cannot understand how she understands in the first place. Much of the waking world will be an adjustment. However, the words themselves strike her as curious—they are appropriate to her situation. She feels more like the risen dead than anything alive or thriving, and while the wolf does not know how she got here, at least she can take comfort in knowing she is alive. Or a ghost. Either version of herself is welcome since it means she is, somehow, alive.

The voice urges her to speak, and she opens her mouth. H-hello, Maiira, she calls out as loud as she can, as strongly as she can. The lilt of the stranger's name feels odd on her tongue; she shifts a bit against the dirt and the ferns, her eyes narrowing in anticipation for the sunlight as she lifts her head and tries to make herself known. Her coat is quite glossy despite whatever hardships she has seen—the light catches across her brow and slants in to her eyes.

Maiira, she implores, gasping the name as she struggles to all fours; her haunches shake and she finds herself tilting in to a haphazard recline. A thin body with thinner limbs and obvious ribs; for whatever reason it is as if the black wolf is fashioned from twigs and her limbs are too weak to sustain her for long.

She looses a weighted breath. I am so tired. So weak—but why? How did she get here, in this state?