Ankyra Sound I cut my hand upon my blade

Backdated to about 5 days after this thread! Members of Sapphique near the cliffs might be able to hear her yell.

It took a week for Phaedra and Wylla to reach the coast on their pleasure trip, but when Wylla came to the Sound with purposeful strides, it took only three days. Three days of traveling as fast as her body would allow, with minimal stops for food, water, or rest. Those things could not be more important to her than her mate's health.

There had been no sign of the sea-witch the last few times Wylla visited the Sound, but that did not mean Caiaphas wasn't still lurking about. If the trio of siblings had not known of her in Grimnismal, she could have slipped past their notice then, too. Caiaphas always was a slippery one, and she hung about in the grotto where Wylla was loathe to go. It was possible they had simply missed one another. She was thankful for it those times, but this time, she needed the chimera bitch to show her bleak black face.

CAIAPHAS! Wylla roared over the sound of the waves the moment her paws hit the cold sand of the Sound. The witch could not enjoy being disturbed this way, but Wylla believed the offer she would make would calm any aggressive tendencies the old hag might emerge with.

I'll prioritize this while I wrap others <3

Rosalyn had not left home in months, not since her excursion after her daughter's disappearance. She feared it now, the way her mind had so easily lost the path, though she thankfully had felt little need as well. The cliffs were more than enough.

Walks on the coast seemed safe, however, and a call this time drew her out.

Who was screaming for a dead witch?

This was more than enough to draw her forth. She recognized neither the voice nor the woman, though she sensed somehow she should. Just a slight itch of familiarity. Caiaphas is dead. She said, with no other lead in, and in a voice that clearly displayed no regret. She had not been the one to do it - and in fact, she did not even remember how she knew this. It was simply a fact she was comfortable with, one well preferred to the alternative.

Having approached with an easy, casual gait, she appraised Wylla curiously. What did she want with the dead? Nothing good, if she was calling for that one.

That was not the answer Wylla was hoping for. She kept her gaze fixed into the grotto's wet mouth for a moment longer, bristling with frustration, then turned to see who had spoken.

Rosalyn did not remember her, but she remembered Rosalyn. She remembered the pirate wench's threat from the cliffs, and also remembered the pain in her stare months prior, back when Stag was still with her. At least there was a spark of familiarity in those golden pools before. At least Wylla could cite that as justification for any indignation she felt in this ruddy woman's presence.

Now there was nothing of the sort. Only a voice that was almost triumphant. That's not possible, said Wylla, curling her lips over her teeth. Not a threat. Only a disbelieving sneer. That bitch is immortal. Where is she? Where are you hiding her?

Rosalyn's eye narrowed at the sneer, but even though it was tempting, she didn't escalate with a show of teeth. She did not know why she was so sure, as the nature of the witch's death was unknown. But she remembered that it had taken place with a sureness that few other things could elicit nowadays.

Hardly. No wolf can outrun death, and the witch had it coming more than most. Rosalyn answered. There was perhaps more she could have said, but she didn't have a whole lot of stake in convincing this woman. Whether she believed it or not didn't matter or change anything.

Rosalyn was right. Wylla knew it, too, but that didn't stop her from taking up and agitated pacing in the sand. Just her luck! Caiaphas had haunted her childhood and thrown a colossal wrench in her early adulthood, but the minute she needed that old seawitch, she decided to go be dead.

A thought struck her and she turned to face the red pirate once more. She had children, said Wylla. How many were there? How old would they be now? These things, she didn't remember. She'd made no effort to know anything about them, but she remembered that there were some. If you knew her, then tell me where I can find them. Surely one of them took after that hag.

These unreasonable requests would embarrass her on a better day, but Wylla was watching the silver thread of her hope winding away from her and was hardly in a rational mindset at all. It was ridiculous to think Rosalyn would know anything about Caiaphas' kids.

The reminder of Raleska succeeded in dissipating any trace of a smile from Rosalyn's features. Luckily, they didn't. But that didn't matter. They're dead too. In Rosalyn's mind, Caiaphas had no claim to her daughter at least, though her influence had mattered in ways the pirate was unwilling to admit. In her eyes, she would always be the one who had adopted the girl after the witch's failure. She had little charity left to alter that, even after having been a mother herself.

You must be desperate, if you are out here looking to dig up that ghost. It's a dead end. My wife and I are the only ones here who even remember her. There wasn't a lot of kindness to the words after the memories that her unknowing questions dredged up, but she did find herself vaguely curious. Why did this woman want, so badly, to find the witch?

That was it, then. There was no hope of tracking down Caiaphas or her kin to coax some sort of life saving magic from them. If Wylla was in a more practical mindset, she would realize just how stupid the idea of Caiaphas saving Mahler was. She was more likely to curse him to an earlier grave than his sickness would promise while still taking her pound of flesh from Wylla to pay for it. She knew that about the sea-witch, but she had banked on being able to trade her life for Caiaphas' secret to living forever.

Turns out they were all dead. She should have been happier about that. She had nothing to say about it until Rosalyn spoke again, suggesting she was desperate. She cast a stormy eye on the ruddy wolf. Did she really remember absolutely nothing about their previous encounters? She lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. I had something she wanted and needed something from her in return for it, but it doesn't matter now. Thanks, she added, keeping the tailing for nothing to herself.

Rosalyn did not buy the answer she received. To her mind, there had been nothing the witch wanted aside from the destruction of those she hated. Perhaps this wolf could have offered that, but would Caiaphas have accepted this help, when she seemed to take such joy in tearing down those around her herself? She hadn't thought of her in so long.

I suppose this thing you have, it would be useless now. And that my pack would have nothing to offer you, in comparison to a mad witch. Rosalyn responded, a slight mocking edge to the words. She might not recognize Wylla, but something about the woman was beginning to strike a discordant note within her, be it the talk of old enemies or something else.

This thing I have is my life, she shared with a glare. Was Rosalyn making fun of her now? Maybe the bitch did remember and was playing stupid so she could have her kicks. Even if Rosalyn's pack housed the best healer in all the land, Wylla would never ask them for help. She could never trust any wolf that took up residence at Drageda's old stead, and with their rocky history, she suspected they would sooner poison Mahler than heal him.

This whole interaction had done nothing but put a sour taste in Wylla's mouth. Caiaphas was dead. Her worthless children were dead. And so was Wylla's hope of utilizing the sea witch's secret to a long life despite all the odds. She wanted to spit at Rosalyn about how her pack was worth less than gull shit to her, but there was no point. For once, the enjoyment of pissing someone else off wasn't enough.

So with a last withering look, Wylla turned down the coast and left Ankyra Sound. It was likely the last time she would ever come here.

Rosalyn watched her go dispassionately. If she was willing to give her life to the witch then clearly it meant little to her. And, were that the case, it had little use to Rosalyn as well. Better to let her disappear.

Still prickling with annoyance, Rosalyn began to stalk back towards the cliffs. She could not place where the irritation stemmed from but it nettled her fur deeply and settled, dissatisfied, to weigh on her chest. Why was her name still on anyone's tongue? Let her fade to the death she deserved.

The witch did not deserve a legacy. Not even one of fear. Not after what she'd taken.

Rosalyn would stalk the boundaries of the tangle before returning, allowing both the scent and lingering distaste of the encounter to fade before she slipped back into Sapphique's claim.