Bearclaw Valley violent disposition

panic wells in her chest, heavy and sinking and suffocating. she tries to focus on cole; his gentle brush to her forehead, his deep and soothing voice. and she tries to keep her eyes on him, but they gravitate back down to her wounds. deep, fresh, ugly. she swears that she could see muscle, maybe even bone, and prays that's only her frantic imagination working in overdrive. 

she'd been hurt before, and pain wasn't unfamiliar...but it was no less startling. she sinks against him, her limbs shaky, and the adrenaline is slowly leaching away. she starts to feel it then, incrementally. a stinging, overwhelming burn that threatens to grow sharper, threatens to bite harder. 

"there's so much blood—" she mumbles. glassy eyes are drawn to it, and then drawn to the carnage that lays around them. "w-why is there so much?" how much of it was coles, how much of it was the coyotes, and how much of it was hers? 

she feels nauseous, uneasy. light-headed. she grips onto cole tighter, her fear palpable. 

there's another voice, another presence, but it hardly registers through her mania. it's like a faint mumbling, or as if ameline's speaking underwater and her voice is muffled, dull. 

the only words that pierce through it, are the regina's urgency to get help. her chest seizes, her pants heavier. would cole go, too? would they leave her alone? "stay," she cried, forcing her eyes to meet his. they were pleading. "please don't go. i can't—i don't—"

he urges he won't leave, and then she's being lifted up, perched atop his strong back. her injured legs dangle on either side of him, and she buries her face into his scruff, muffling her own dull whimpers. "it hurts. i wanna go home."