Wheeling Gull Isle the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking

it must have been mere minutes while the girl sunk into darkness, but it seemed to have been aeons when she finally woke. she didn't move, merely feeling the wind and rain lashing into her pelt and briefly wondering why she was not more dead in this moment. Cold had leached to her very bones, and her pelt was alight with stinging and burning wounds, and her chest burned with an odd pain she had not felt before. 

gradually, with awareness, came the shouts, barely heard above the rain, and the forms that moved in the rain. the girl lifted her head, slowly, carefully, recalibrating. it was some moments after that she heaved to her feet, lurching atop thin, shaking limbs, and stood there, staring into the driving rain. then she moved, yet not in the direction of the others; instead on a shaky path toward the nearest patch of darkness, a lumpy bush at the edge of the beach. there she crashed into the ground, curling up close to the limited protection the bush offered, far too confused and otherwise occupied with her hurts and cracked ribs to coax any clarity from this situation.