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

hate, vile and viscous, pumps steadily through her veins. it is perhaps the only thing tethering her to consciousness, her headache blinding and over-shadowed only by the burning that is her limb. guttural snarl rips from her throat, swaying as she fixes her gaze on his melting, morphing features. she steps toward him, falls; her hind limb faltering beneath her weight. this is, by quite a large margin, the shittiest day of her life thus far. 

"fucker," she spits, lungs heaving and yet still managing to draw almost no oxygen into them. "I'll—you—" it is the extent of whatever threat she wished to utter. another snarl, seething with hate. she will tear her fangs into his stupid, grinning face, and she will tear out his tongue. 

but that is not what happens. bleeding, defeated, the once-warlord looks only to put distance between herself and the boy her pack had once kept in a pit, retreating further down the beach before she darkness threatening the edges of her vision decides to darken it entirely.