Neverwinter Forest Scratch scratches, fire starts with matches

Harlyn. She mentally tasted the name. It was unfamiliar to her tongue, its origin unknown, but it was a lovely name. She wondered to herself whether it meant something, historical or otherwise. She almost asked, but refrained; if asked the origin of her name, Sialuk could give its meaning but not why it existed or why she'd been given it. The warshaman assumed Harlyn might have the same trouble and chose to spare her the effort.

"Thank you," she said graciously, "it is from the tundra. My family is from Alaska." There were so many types of wolf in Alaska: harsh Nords, gentle shamans, intense tribes following after strange gods unheard of in other territories. Those who followed the musk oxen—Sialuk's pack had been one such group—and those who dined on seals. The groups clashed more than they got along, and more than that they avoided each other.

"Where are you from? Your own sings to me a foreign tune, but a beautiful one." For some reason, Harlyn's name—and the slight accent she had, probably detectable only by those as foreign as Sialuk to the south lands—made her imagine a hill.