Northstar Vale foalócë

Godspeak; prayer-pale stars;
he is darker in hide and deeper in chord than her Dread, and yet when he looks upon her from crown to claw the stricken does not feel as perturbed as she once would have felt. She does not quail as the past-vessel favored to do; does not shroud into herself as a shy specter might wont for. No—
—her shorn chin rises with courtesy, and tilts with a bit of curiosity. She wonders what, exactly, this apostle might make of her; but then he speaks in a language that does not click and clack, and so she registers it as common.

Then ... 
"Forgive me,"  her tongue tread; a tad clumsy, as ever, when faced with notions such as these,  "I am a godless one. Would Bahati, however, be of your prayers?"  Remained lingering where she stood; unsure how severely she might have intruded upon a sacred space.