Wheeling Gull Isle for the feast and the promise of gold

24.07.2020

she has taken to moving along the beaches, slowly, cautiously. it a graceless, heavy gate that ferries her along the sands, but the stiffness in her shoulder threatens, and the movement, though painful, is necessary. gaze skims the waves, remembering last her struggle against the waves. but she will have to brave them again, if only to ake for the mainland. slowly, she steps into the surface, treading deeper. 

she offers an experimental paddle, but the pain flaring through her shoulder and hind limb put an end to such optimistic thoughts of simply swimming out from here now. but the water has the odd effect of reducing the pain in her limbs, the weight on them. considering, the warlord begins to move parallel to the shore, testing how much her limbs can bear. the saltwater stings against the deepest of her still-healing scars, but the burn is welcome; it feels right against the wounds.

she thinks it a trick of the light when she first sees it -- a strip of sand, narrow, barely above the water. she stills, tracing it as far as the eye can see; watching where it trails toward the mainland. a wild surge of something akin to hope, and she nears. 

even as she watches, water comes to cover the sand, slowly, but discernably. which nothing to do but think, and observe the world around her, she has noticed the cycle of the tides, and a great deal more besides. considering, she wavers there. but ultimately she turns away, moving back the way she'd come through the shadows, mind working.