Wheeling Gull Isle it must be that old evil spirit; so deep down in your ground

floating, baseless. something has seized whatever she is out of her broken body and held it aloft. there she hangs, unwilling to shift, to think, to dismantle whatever delicate framework keeps her here. to do so would be to fall back into her body, which burns with fever and wounds too many to count, to feel at once. and so she does not deign to think, to wonder, but the dreams come all the same. 

in her ear, close and clear, stories. the words are clear, cohesive, and she understands perfectly and yet not at all. stories which her mind can not understand, whispered in her mother's voice. someone calls, interrupting now and again the inexorable flow of words, droning on heedlessly. on the edges of whatever plane she waits in stalks a shadow, familiar and drifting, and while she dares not glance into its eyes she knows what she will see there; the great expanse of everything and nothing set into that skull. 

bloodied, broken, the body has dragged itself to the stream's edge. dislocated forelimb drags in the current, little eddies swirling around it. muzzle dangles a few inches above the surface, the rest of the body strewn over the bank. dew peppers the bloodied ruff, and flies swarm over bloodied gash across its chest. chest rises and falls barely, infused with an unnatural warmth. 

@Huā