Emberwood We can live in a world that we design.

Vague af about departure and what goes down with Nyx/Lyc, sry

It was a long and solemn march from Grimnismal out into no man's land. Once again, she was on her own, a picaroon without a place to call her own, only this time, her pride and ego were both crippled. She was at least a dozen times more jaded now than she had been upon arriving in the Wilds, and she felt utterly disrespected, unwanted, and put out. Within the pack's borders she'd fumed and stomped, leaving only when the fragile final straw was neatly snapped by Nyx and Lycaon, but out here she allowed the full weight of it to settle on her back and shoulders.
She went first south a little down the beach, but a fateful encounter not-yet-written made her think better of continuing in that direction, so she swung back to the north and neatly skirted Grimnismal's territory. Her mood was low and her expression lower as she turned to the east and followed the dim glow of dawn and, later, the rising sun. It was a long trek inland but it kept her mind off recent events.
She chose to rest within a sparse deciduous forest, curling up under a rotted and molding log in an effort to snatch an hour or two of sleep. She had no destination in mind, only the burning desire to put as many miles between herself and the wicked witch as possible, but when left alone with her thoughts, Wylla crumpled back into what she truly was: a teenager. One who had just come to the realization that despite thinking she was someone important and special, a leader, every single tenant of the strand had been in one way or another spitting on her effort from the start, to boot. It had all just been a farce.
Or so dramatics told her, but that was the only language teenagers spoke, so she began to weep, a hideous sound from her belly that was sure to attract a certain crimson passerby's attention.