Deepwood Weald ²tenn' enta lúme

oof this post is sponsered by my 2 braincells

The well-met Rhaesuian's previous words had a cast of cinched concern winging across the shorn face; were all the wilds so aquiver? Her mind wisps to thoughts of her feathered familiar, sent after a priest— but it is neither face that enquires her, though, and with a bleary waver of lashes she hears what Agana next speaks. At such, her lips thin, but more profession than the expected embitterment:  "Ze heavens have sent their regards, yes,"  stepping to further meet Agana where she lingered,  "and they have remade my soul into Andraste."

There was no exhortion in the stricken's voice; no lauding of what had happened to her. No; each admittance went from her shorn lips, solemn, veritable.  "As ze shores are drowned by ze seas, I seek to make this weald for those who would follow me,"  a phantom kiss of a smile at those lips, noting the wary of the other; her eyes were of likewise faraway quiet, but looked into Agana's face without prejudice. "It is not so frightful, once you roam ze mists."