Gilded Bay the depths are calling

the man gave him a name full of vigorous consonants. tartok. like something you'd spit during battle, blood staining your mouth. with that, he had govinda's respect, and the seawolf fixed his hawkish gaze on the man--noting that while he had given his own name, the stranger had not. and yet his homeland had slipped from his lips so easily. . .

quite the opposite, govinda said mildly. i come from the south, not the north, and i have no family to speak of. not that i know personally, at least. no name to call his own, either, save the one his mother had given him. he had always been scattered, a vagabond, traipsing from place to place without ambition.

come to think of it, that was quite like what he was doing now.