Emberwood ❝ten sí ye tyelma, yéva tyel ar i narqelion❞

The fairylight flits from the Vale of her wolves;
and now treads by way of sundowning; glimmering glows alights first on the fraying leaves and gnarled briars high o'erbrow, limning them in a farwelling. She breathes in unassuming wisps; the elusive Emberwood paths that she beholds are lain with the soft claim of thin frost ... perhaps the last of its kith before the seasons have turned twice and ask for a thawing.

The stricken does not mean to be awake in the chilled press of harvest night — and neither does she mean to be away from her Court, and knows she ought to be there when all wake; but the would-be slumbering had been dismantled in autumnal deep with some impending bodement; only half-pursued, in the samewise manner she would seek the last of midsummer's birdsong. She knows she must tend to it, figure at its lieu—
—but for now for now for now, the marked puts those ensarements of fathomless thought to rest.

She instead lips at brambles, sups the pruning berries in a trembling sort of way; a pale shade through the snarling, entreating halls; passes through the utter devotional quiet that extends like a great sea of hush from vaulted reaches of myriad boughs so high above; settled with lichens and moss, softening blue at their edges.

When the fading embers of these hinters eventually disenchanted her, Andraste would return to her own.