Tuktu Hinterlands more, give me more

Meadow? Meadow?

Solpallur narrowed his eyes at her; that wasn’t the name he expected at all. Meadow was a place, not a name. Of course, Engi sounded a bit better in his ears than Meadow. But everything sounded better in their tongue, as archaic as it was unknown in where it had come from so many generations ago. They spoke a smattering of languages in truth, each one a bit different from the last. The common tongue of this part of the world, however, it was the most difficult to master and he grappled with it even now, even when Stjornuati provided crude translations.

A grumble left him, his words sharp at Stjornuati’s out of reach backside: “Það er nafn þitt, þú ert með sáran rass.” And yet for all the ribbing he could receive from his brother, it did little to take away from his pound of flesh meal. Stjornuati’s time would come soon enough—right now he had the task of educating their little Engi.

“Mér líkar betur við rauðhærða,” he went on childishly, grasping the meat chunk between his paws to pull at it again. “Er hún ekki falleg? Eins og þessi eina stelpa sem við þekktum áður, sú ósvífna.” Surely he did remember that one, but maybe not. It had been a long time, he thought.