Wheeling Gull Isle always laughing in the midst of power

it takes her a moment to pinpoint the woman's location. words stretch, slide along on air currents until she is not entirely sure where they'd come from. her eyelids pull back a little further, dull gaze seeking. muzzle rises, craning to catch a glimpse of her next antagonist. already, lips curl back feebly. 

"no. no." the words are thick, bulky, and she finds it difficult to form her mouth around them. exhales, gathers herself. "do not touch me. do not." which each thing that comes to set its fangs against her, whether it be the sea or the wolves on this isle, she feels herself slipping; and she has so little ground left.