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

Would you like to see where I was born?

The Watch was no longer an option, leaving Wylla and @Stag unmoored once more. She'd wracked her brain between spells of total despondency trying to come up with another place to go, and she hadn't come up with a single idea. Somehow on her way across the taiga to where she'd broken her last heartstring, she'd failed to discover any of the packs in the area. Without the Watch, she knew only of two: Sagtannet and Rusalka.

Neither were options, in her opinion.

She knew she had to find somewhere for them to spend the winter, and was at a complete loss for where that was, but she remembered that the coast was always milder. The damp could soak through coat and flesh alike, extending frosty fingers down into a wolf's very marrow, but there was usually less snow, and the wind was less icy. She could do without feeling frostbitten every day. It's not a very pretty place, she shared. My mom was actually a captive at the time. My dad, well, we never met him. Guess he probably ran off to fuck some other girls or something, I dunno. She made a short sound in her throat, unamused. It seemed like such a man thing to do. She hoped Stag didn't grow up to be that way with whoever he eventually chose, and any children he eventually sired.

*despairing Tachyon noises in the BG*

As long as Stag had known Wylla, she had never shared too much about her past. His ears perked at her offer in interest. "Sure." Stag replied almost immediately. Wylla knew everything about him - where he was born, who his parents were, how he was raised -- and in contrast, he knew very little about Wylla.

He wondered if her description of the place was possibly a contributor to all the things that made Wylla.. well... Wylla. He couldn't imagine she grew up on some pristine and tropical shore where things were green and full of paradise. Wylla, to him, was someone who had grown up somewhere lean and hard -- his breath held as he waited to see just what Wylla's homeland was like. Learning Wylla was born in a captive arrangement with a completely absentee father made his own heartstrings waver. "Captive?" Stag repeated in mild shock, biting his lip in worry. He'd never understood the point of such arrangements. "What happened?"

This was where it had happened.  A place that once she'd guessed to be cursed was now known to be.

And she'd been powerless, in the end.

She knew that she needed to let it go, to move on from this for the children she had left, but none of the ones before had felt like this.  This was a rawness akin to her time in the cliffs, a despair that threatened to drown her if she for any instant decided to stop paddling against the flow.  And it was so, so tempting to stop.  Rosalyn was exhausted.

Her fury had ebbed to a frightening numb.  She sat at the entrance to the sound and stared at its depths, wondering if Caiaphas was there, her ghost mocking the pirate.  So you reclaimed her in the end, she thought, her breath hitching.  But she was never yours.  You didn't deserve her.

Neither did I.

She was completely unaware of Stag and Wylla's movements nearby.  A chill picked up from the sea and raked ice through her fur.  She shuddered, imagined yellow eyes piercing from the gloom.  It could have been either ghost.

I'll drop background unless they come her way <3 this can also be a cameo

I don't know much about it, Wylla admitted, leading them through the monolithic sequoias to the cliff's edge where the path down to the sound could be found. After all this time, it felt strange that she still knew exactly where to go. She remembered when she'd first found Lycaon up among these giants, and with a flash of displeasure, remembered him standing next to Nyx when they announced their treason.

Swallowing, Wylla led Stag out of the trees to where the cliffs overlooked the cold sand below and paused there, frowning. Nowadays, the only fondness she held for the place was for the trees. My mom never liked to talk about it much, but the pack was called Saltwinter, and she was held here by a witch. The witch stole my brother when we were born and wanted to steal the rest of us, so my mom managed to get me and my other brother out of here. We actually grew up in a place called Keokuk Glade. It's a lot nicer than here. That was Lusca's re-telling, and Wylla took it as the gospel truth. That Lusca had left Lycaon behind and Caiaphas had raised him was simply inconceivable. Lusca was a rough she-wolf, but Wylla wouldn't believe her mother left a child behind even if Lycaon himself insisted upon it.

I don't know how my mom and deadbeat dad even met while she was here, she shared as she carefully showed Stag the way down the precarious cliffside. Maybe he had been a Saltwinter wolf, and maybe he had run off the moment Lusca discovered she was pregnant. Wylla could conceive of all sorts of fanciful notions about the type of wolf her father had been, and none favoured him in the slightest. This is where I met Mahler. She glanced up at the cold, dark water and recalled their swimming race, then shoved the memory violently aside and put him from her mind. He'd made his choice. When her paws touched the sand and she remembered just how inhospitable the Sound was, Wylla shuddered, and then stilled very suddenly when she spotted a russet figure standing near the yawning mouth of the grotto.

Wait, she murmured to Stag, glaring. That's one of those Rusalka wolves. There was no easy escape route back up to Drageda's former claim, meaning Wylla and Stag stood between Rosalyn and her only way out of here. They had a distinct advantage if the bitch decided to attack, but Wylla hung there, waiting to see what would happen. She'd been aggressive to Rusalka on the belief that Mahler and she were united in wanting the cliffs to stay unclaimed, but now that she (thought she) knew what a duplicitous liar he was, she didn't feel half as much inclined to rail against their claim. Let the ghosts of Drageda haunt them forevermore. It was no business of hers.

Stag followed dutifully, if a bit slow. He was overwhelmed by the enormity of the trees. They were larger than anything he had ever seen, and when he and Wylla walked between them he felt as if he were transported to some giant's fairy-tale realm. Perhaps these trees were the self-same trees that inspired tales of legend, like Yggdrasil -- all he knew was that their monolith size dwarfed even the tallest firs of his homeland.

He was mute as he followed after Wylla, taking it all in. She spoke of the pack she was born in, called Saltwinter. It seemed befitting in Stag's mind that so miserable a place would have so stringent a name. That Wylla was raised elsewhere and that a witch had lived here was all taken as gospel truth. Stag had no reason to think otherwise.

This is where I met Mahler. Stag peered out at the choppy waves, something sour settling in his stomach. Much like Wylla, he did some mental squashing -- for different reasons.

A chill went down his spine as he saw Wylla's features change to one of stilled alarm. Following her gaze, Stag spotted the figure that had alerted her. He had never met Rosalyn, and so, had no reason to recognize her -- but Wylla's stark change in posture had him on high alert.

Learning she was one of the cliffwolves (was she the one that had taken Wylla's eye?!), Stag's hackles began to raise. He wouldn't attack first by any means, but one wrong step on the stranger's behalf and Stag would be happy to donate to the latticework of scars that lined her pelt.

The sensation that the darkness was peering back was not a pleasant one.  Rosalyn held her gaze on it for a few long moments, but at length the urge to turn away was overwhelming.  She did so, fur prickling, just in time to see that Wylla and Stag were approaching.  Fortunately they were not on her blind side.

She recognized Wylla immediately.  She'd thought Sagtannet gone, but perhaps they'd simply moved south, and now were rallying again to resume their chase?  It wasn't unreasonable to think they'd held the aim this long - after all, their first attempt had been just as baseless.

She didn't rile, but did stand.  Her face bore an expression of tired acceptance.  If you're here for blood, then get on with it.  She wouldn't outrun them in her current state, so soon after the bear, but she wouldn't go quietly either.  Even if it wasn't madness for her to take on the two of them alone, she had no desire to.  Her desire for anything was sapped.

Wylla felt rather than saw the way that Stag grew tense beside her, and she stiffened similarly when Rosalyn got to her feet. Like her counterpart, there was a thin row of raised charcoal fur along her back warning Rosalyn that she wasn't afraid to defend herself. She expected some kind of ridiculous Dragedan claim that Ankyra Sound belonged to the cliffs, along with Rosalyn's promise of violence if she "trespassed" again being fulfilled here and now, but the she-wolf raised her voice only.

She still did not see the irony of fearing such a reaction when she was the one who had tried to claim ownership of land that was not hers, although she was beginning to see how pointless it was to try to defend something outside one's realm. For her, it was primarily due to the lack of support she'd received, even from the one who started the whole bloody thing, but it was something.

I don't give a fuck about your blood, she said baldly back. You leave us be and we'll leave you be to keep doing whatever the hell cuckoo voodoo you're doing. Wylla really did not care to know why Rosalyn was staring into the darkness like some freak, although when she glanced back at Stag, she also caught sight of a red-brown smear on the ground near where they'd descended that hadn't been washed away by the tide yet, suspiciously like the blood of something dragged along the ground, and she was put even more on guard. Maybe there really was some voodoo shit going on here. She'd never liked the grotto, and wasn't sorry that Rosalyn was barring her from showing it to Stag.

C'mon, she said to him, only a little warmer as she began to give Rosalyn a very wide berth, leading him toward the ocean instead while keeping a side-eye on the Rusalkan. Careful, the sand feels real weird on your feet near the water.

Stag was not a spiritual wolf, but even he could feel there was something lingering about -- it settled across Rosalyn's shoulders and drifted to he and Wylla -- something that had dispelled discomfiture down to his bones and had his teeth on edge.

He didn't understand what to make of Rosalyn's answer, nor Wylla's reply. He knew only this wolf was likely a marked enemy -- she shared a loss of eye and it was there her similarities with Wylla and he ended. Stranger may as well mean enemy to the young man and his counterpart.

He thought he scented something else above the brine. Blood, perhaps. A score along the sand that was curiously dark earned his attention for several seconds before Stag turned his gaze away. He was not sorry at all that they would not enter that dark hole Rosalyn stood besides. It sent a shiver down his spine and he was loathe to turn his back to it.

One last lingering gaze to Rosalyn, perhaps to assess if she was a threat after all -- before Stag turned and wordlessly followed Wylla towards the wrack line.

She watched them, and her expression did not change when Wylla dismissed her concerns.  She still didn't trust the woman not to turn on her after the animosity on the borders, but it seemed the cliffs were no longer an aim of hers.  This was good to know, though she filed it away for when she could care a bit more.

It occurred to her she might warn them about the bear, at the very least.  She opened her mouth to call after, but then paused, confused. No... the bear was dead.  The memory clarified, and she felt a sinking feeling as again she beheld the blood on the beach, recalled her daughter's body on the stones.

Let them go.

She turned without word and began to walk away, back towards the cliffs, but froze and stared back at the damn cave one more time.  I can't forgive you.  But watch out for her.  Her voice broke, and swiftly she whirled and began to run.

Unless they stop her, Rosalyn out! <3

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.