Shadowwyn Moor he beseeched him lay a hand upon fever-hot brow

The way it rolls off Sif's tongue, po - et, charms her, and she offers a smile briefly. There is something almost childlike about the russet-coated woman, a naiveté that does not frustrate her but does not inspire confidence. She does not understand the words Sif uses but takes them to be part of whatever language is her native tongue (and wonders, briefly, if Wardruna shares a tongue with her. They had spoken to each other, no?)

"Alone is sad," she agrees. Poet had never experienced solitude until her exile from the temple. Loneliness, yes; feeling set apart from the rest, perhaps, is what inspired her eventual downfall. As if she were watching from behind a pane of glass. 

Hm. The sinner stretches out slightly, moving closer to Sif. "He will protect us?" She queries, less to find an answer for herself and more to probe the closeness between the portent and his woman.