Wheeling Gull Isle keep you in the dark

in her purgatory, she can only think, and dream. 

the dreams are senseless, falling, stumbling through the fading webs of a hundred different realities. her thoughts, however, are the only thing the woman can control. they are steeped in hate and rage, tainted by delirium at the height of her fevers. hela makes a list; of faces, of names. 

an eye for an eye, a leg for a leg. the scales are not made even. she will right them. 

left to burn inside her own mind, her motives, twist, sharpen, are made anew. dark gods beckon at the edges of memory, whisper fervent lessons. the body is still; broken, healing. but behind half-slitted molten gaze, her mind works, imagining just how neatly she'd disarticulate the skeleton of the dark woman, remembering the way the warlord's life had sapped away beneath her fangs.