Wheeling Gull Isle because I am not going your way

vague vague vague

at least she isn't in a pit.

the woman is still, a small mountain of wolf not far from the shore. her chest rises slowly, falls again. slitted gaze is ever-wary, auds relaxed but prepared to swivel toward any sound or trace of another. the once-warlord is going nowhere fast, held here in limbo until she can make for shore again. 

flies buzz, attempting to alight on weeping wounds. one lands on one of the gashes across her muzzle, remaining a moment before she snaps her jaws and it alights into the air once again. deep sigh leaves her; should she remove herself from the situation, she'd be able to see the neat way in which retribution had been dealt.