Sequoia Coast born into cruelty and crooked form

Eyjólfur.

It was a name forged out of his own tongue, if not a bit bastardized somewhere if he had to hurl a guess into the sea behind him. He scoffed quietly to himself, the sound nothing more than a clearing of his throat. Ironic, perhaps, to discover her along the coast when he would have shortened her name to something much more similar but just as cumbersome—Øyulfr. The meaning wouldn’t have been lost. Island wolf.

It was sad then, he decided, that she did not have a better grasp of his dialect.

“We are same,” he murmured, the words stunt and stilted. “You of isle, this one of peak. Same…” and the trailing, thoughtful in its essence went to nothing. “Words. Tongue.” But that was where it ended, this he knew, for she was not of the north. No accent, nothing wayward about her than the travels of someone who had somewhere to go rather than be loosened to the wilderness at large.