Wheeling Gull Isle into the water, let it pull him under

the warlord pants, sides heaving. her chest feel light, empty, her head somewhat removed from the rest of her, high-up and spinning. she blinks, nausea rolling in her gut, and suddenly pain erupts around her right hind. the girl grunts, spinning toward him as the edges of her vision tinge with red; or is it black? 

a messy lunge for his head; but his grip does not falter and she's stumbling, twisting. her weight works against her, something gives. the crack resonates, the pain comes a moment later, a sonic boom that arches through her. "bitch," she spits, the word ragged, as she lunges for his face. except, she's not moved, and the only thing she's managed to do is spit up bile into the sand.