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Wynnderlan II
I was alone. Floating; drifting but for the spike in my chest that pinned me to the hard surface underneath. Faces with burning blue eyes, heads crowned with antlers and pointed ears advanced and faded.
This is death? I could not feel my limbs, only the spike of pain in my chest. I tired to draw a breath. Like a hammer hitting water-soft wood, my lungs convulsed once and seized in my chest.
 I arched up off the hard surface I lay on, suddenly desperate for air. Pain slammed through me. I trashed, fighting to break up the solid matter that my lungs had become. Something broke loose and I retched. Congealing blood and foam came up with each heave of my frozen lungs. I gasped for breath, choking up fluid and clots of blood till I was exhausted, my throat a raw ruin. It was then, lying face down propped up on my elbows I realized I was naked and soaking wet; underneath me wet rock, sea water lapping about my legs. Over a low bluff the half moon hung like a swollen womb. I was in a sea cove, lying amongst the driftwood that littered the beach and bobbed in the low water, bone-white in the moonlight.
I coughed once; a weak, wet cough that tore at my throat and made my stomach heave. My breath misted the air but I felt no cold. I looked down at my hands.
Dead-white, like a corpse, the skin loose and flaccid. I bent my fingers. The skin pulled away from my hand, sliding off in a long swath. I stared, unable to feel either shock or revulsion. I turned my hands and scraped them along the stone. Thick, dead skin and flesh peeled away like cod under the dressers knife. A corpse. I was a rotting copse.
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