The Tangle Hands to your hymnals, hell's at the door

They stared one another down. The woman broke first; her posture shifting only slightly while stepping back from the grey area they inhabited in the moment. Her words were sharp and lightly accented but not in a manner Kigipigak was familiar with, more like a borrowing from someone else, something one might assume from another that they spend long hours with.

If anyone is lost it is me, aumarak. Kigipigak answered. In studying the woman Kigipigak saw not only scars but skepticism, a composure set in by age alone, and something wizened that reminded him of his grandparents. She could not have been that old he reasoned—the scars aged her beyond her years. 

I am Kigipigak Tartok, he introduced in the next breath. I travel. This place is a maze—do you know the way?