Ankyra Sound sheepskin

Wylla's just watching for right now. They would be able to smell but not see her.

She returned from the cape bloodied, bruised and exhausted. She favoured her left forelimb with a limp and her face was caked in dried blood from the gouges in her cheek, which still wept even now. Aches and pains wracked her every step and she wanted nothing more than retire to the grotto and sleep it off, but she was reminded as soon as she passed the borders that someone was still in estrus, and she was further reminded that the grotto was an unsavoury place with the heavily pregnant Caiaphas denning there.

Lycaon's scent was heavy in the bay as well, tempering her from going after whoever was stinking up her home now. Instead, she was suddenly inflamed with the desire to confront the obvious source of the witch's condition—Wylla was rather done with being ignored and undermined as the authority of the strand. They owed her respect, damn it, or so she haughtily told herself. It was too little, too late now, but she nevertheless sought out Kierkegaard with every intention of reminding him that he was the lowest of the low in her ranks and would have nothing to do with his illicit, unsanctioned children on her watch if he wished for them to survive. So it was that she followed his scent up into the trees.

He wasn't hard to find—he smelled faintly still of injury and pain, and the musty smell of old age as well—but Wylla paused in the shadow of the tree when another voice, young and arrogant and just begging for an ass kicking, sounded. Had it been Lycaon or Ingram on border duty, her injuries would not have stopped Wylla from planting her teeth into the face of the offending lone wolf, for she sought with a fury to remind everyone just who was in charge here. Since it was Kierkegaard, however, and she had every reason to suspect his motives and hope the two men would take one another out and spare her the effort, not to mention said injuries, she hunkered down to watch for a time.