Wheeling Gull Isle turncoat

In the hours, minutes, seconds that passed since she had discovered the fate of her father, Dinah fell between fits of agony and of shock — and for a long while, it truly did not seem to sink in.
There were moments of odd calmness, like the tide as the ugly black-blue of stormclouds bellow across the sky, and there were moments of inconsolable panic and terror. But her brain simply did not seem to fully recognize reality — she felt not her feet as they touched the ground, the weight in her lungs, the throb of her head. She spoke; too much, too little, and in the lapses of chaos she clenched her knuckles and bit her tongue.
It did not feel real until the family began to pour dirt over what was left of him.
Dinah had come alongside her careworn siblings and had brought her flowers to add, ones she thought he would like, as she promised; she brought phlox, lupine, beargrass, aster, and she numbly placed them in between his wrists as if he held them. And at last, she tore a clump of her fur from the first place she could reach, and beside him it too went.
But she did not lose it until the earthdrawn soil began to cover his face.
Her face contorts from haggard to horrified and she cannot even hear herself as she screams from the lowest part of her lungs up to the high heavens, up to a God who had abandoned her, who had stolen and ripped and unleashed an unfathomable hellscape upon the Sweetharbor clan.
She screams, over and over and over, again and again until her vocal chords feel as if they may snap and she could no longer suck in the air needed, and—
Nothing, after. Nothing.
The flicker of Hell's flame was no match for this.
Daddy daddy DADDY
Dinah would not leave the site of his burial until the sun dipped below the horizon.