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

Where the ravens dance.  He was well-spoken for someone who apparently spoke a few tongues.  She wondered if he was similar to her in that most of her native language was gone now, stolen by the years and by the crew who had taken her.  There did not seem to be anything aside from nostalgia when he spoke of his homeland, though time had tempered her bitterness as well.  There was no way to know except to ask - but she would not.

The southern shores, she answered, to clarify that her own was likely the opposite of what he spoke of.  She couldn't imagine missing ice fields when she herself sometimes yearned for the overbearing sun and bright, raceous birds of her previous home.  If she could choose one place to die, perhaps it might have been there, but love had other plans for her.

If you are looking for mountains, south is your best bet.  The northern mountains were already spoken for and certainly not by his kin.  She doubted the wolves who were harassing them would abide anyone settling so near as the neighboring peaks either.  I can show you out of this place.  She beckoned him to follow and began to set off southward, navigating the tangle with an ease that spoke of long practice.  When she'd lived in the sound, this place had been a frequent haunt once the shadow of Drageda cleared.

WC: 237