Sleeping Dragon consulting the self

Lucani's 100th post!

The healer lay feverish upon the grass, inching towards what could be an unexpected death. It was dusk, and a low mist had settled over Sleeping Dragon. Among it was the grey wolf, who had been feeling weary and distracted for almost a day now but had diagnosed it as a head cold. By the time it had got worse, the fever had become such that she couldn't think straight. She needed... water... wet moss... perhaps the root of the... of the...

Her mind was a chaotic mess of words that failed her and concepts that seemed outlandish. Little waking nightmares gripped her, and she closed her eyes tight in a childish attempt to get rid of them. It was all that remained to her. Fever... water... no... moss... life... water... life... fever... fever... black... fever...