Nova Peak the voices in my head suggest a less than peaceful side

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"no mulherin here." tongue cleaned gristle from his teeth and he spat it into the brush. "i building home." what was her accent? he could not place it; she was not one of the reindeer-hunters nor the icemen in the far glaciality.

suppose she knew the terrain of his mountain? skorpa chose to believe it so, for the potential of any threat. an old instinct from old habits not dead. she moved with the assured grace of a hunter who has been tested and not been found wanting. he would respect that by treating her as the blade she might well intend to be.

"sobeille of ...?" bearwolf grunted. he gave. now she gave. a wondering, put aside for now, on who this mulherin might be. or might have been.