Wheeling Gull Isle wochop

in the ends it had not been birds heda caught for the two of them. it was a shimmering, gigantic fish of many colors, which she wrestled first in the shallows and then in deeper water.
the girl felt as though she had swallowed half the sea. the fish was near the length of her own body and armed with massive fins.
she had hardly held onto it. but now it lay in the sand, balefully gasping toward her. she flopped down upon the wet ground and looked away from the fish. why had she chosen that? why did she make things difficult? birds would have been fine, he wouldn't have minded birds.
the subconscious sat back upon its laurels. she wanted to please him. she wanted to show him her strengths. her capability. and she did not even know it.
dragging the fish back proved a harder task. heda's back ached. her neck was strained, and she was forced to pause more often than she liked.
but the wolf did not cry out. she did not call for help. she bore her catch back, its scales scratched and marred and dirtied, no longer glowing. its jaw held the imprint of her teeth. she was too tired to even call for @Bartholomew, and fell asleep almost where she rested, in the immediate deep slumber of one who means to make it an escape. hours and hours, into the morning that followed and broke overhead in rain.