Ankyra Sound I cut my hand upon my blade

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.