Anya lay on her back in the dirt and contemplated moving. She didn’t think anything was broken or otherwise damaged but sitting up felt a little bit beyond her.
She gazed up at the slope she’d just tumbled down. Steep, long, more rocks than was comfortable for a flailing human, and just enough undergrowth to slow the slide.
A mental review of her body confirmed bruises everywhere, and her left ankle hurt. She gritted her teeth and sat. Her head spun but a few deep breaths got that back under control. Right, concussion, she should check for that. There were no lumps on her forehead or in her hair, and no blood either. Good.
Dress torn beyond hope of repair – and it had been one of her favourites. Fingernails broken, palms grazed, a long, wide scratch up her right calf, and every inch of her was filthy.
No more stalling, she looked at her ankle. Definitely swollen, but it didn’t look deformed. Hopefully it was just a sprain. Of course ‘just a sprain’ was still one hell of a problem when she was stuck at the bottom of a hidden cliff, with no one else around, and no one with any idea she’d even left the manor.
The DNA of Stories 