Larksong Grotto Ankärr

How does he manage to contort his words in just such a way? Skorp-ahh. Skor-pa. Like his tongue spins back on itself.
“Skorpa,” the woman repeats in her own accent.
The wild man has a name. Skorpa. New information to consider. Does it suit him? Does it mean something? Her breath fogs lightly in the chilling air. He unnerves, but his observations seem good. Without a name, he was easy to resent. She isn’t sure what to think of him anymore.
A tingle runs down the alpine spine. This is so strange, making peace with him, and yet it feels like sewing the seed of a fragile truce.
“Ayovi,” her name fills the little vale. Indigo eyes push up, gauging the man— gauging Skorpa.