Ankyra Sound Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

Honestly, mumbled Wylla as she looked impassively at the line etched in the sand where the water ended, it's kind of a shit hole, isn't it? Where was the Ankyra Sound she remembered, resplendent in twilight, breathtaking for the magnitude of its trees, cozy and safely enclosed by the cliffs? All she saw now was a stinking shoreline with very little to offer. The trees were colossal and imposing, but no longer breathtaking. The grotto felt more ominous than safe. The cliffs loomed and she felt like an animal in a cage.

The pink gloss of her memory took all the ugly out of it, and she wondered if, given time, that would happen to her memories of Sagtannet, too, to heal her broken soul.

In a distant corner of her mind, she had perhaps been entertaining the idea of taking this place once more—Rusalka be damned—but looking on it now, she had no desire for it. She didn't understand what she'd ever seen in it. Making a home of it with a trusted friend like Stag might make it easier to appreciate, but they both deserved better than an inhospitable, cold, closed in bay like this.

Let's keep going, she suggested. There's some nicer places further down the coast.