[imgright]https://matope-swamp.com/images/phoenix ... uncert.png[/imgright]Her head still thrummed from the lingering stench of sinweed pollen, and she felt oddly impersonal with herself.

She licked the bleeding wound on her hoof, twisted into what must have been an uncomfortable position.

The place she had come to rest was quiet, oddly peaceful. Her hearing focused on the far off chattering of songbirds and quiet dance of the wind and fallen leaves across the water. Every moment she was expecting to pick up far-off screams and whispers once again, but they never came. Still, she was on edge.

It was a speck of dry land, at least, at the foot of a mangrove tree. Reflection was not a medic, but she had the strangest feeling that rubbing a bunch of dirty water and mud in an open wound was not the most optimal treatment. She'd already had quite the time trying to get the burrs out of her hair, not an easy feat without a smaller creature to help you with it. (Spark was presumably somewhere closer to the Mound, and she didn't feel like walking that far on a broken hoof.) It had rendered her usually-prim braid a mess, more like an overgrown Totoma's wool than hair.

Trying to get mud and sticks out of her hoof, after all that? Forget it. She'd try again when she had more mental energy to spare.

So she sunk into a heap on the ground, not quite settled in enough to sleep, but not quite energetic enough to get up.