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

Trilling gentled melody; cradlesong not yet bartered with brood.

Long had she been one of solitary definition, someone welcomed, wanted; shunned, unspoken. She has only ever been flesh and bone, was only ever like them all. And not: she feels herself grounding into the dying earth; growing thick roots and halted only by the reachings of loam. Abeyant, in that expectant, aching way of waiting to touch; of waiting for the petal-unfurling beneath it. But the desolation brought with her downfall had been a preordained thing, she thinks; had been what has since hexed her with that misfortune of for-ever being misunderstood. 

Mortality presents itself in the smeared jam of dark huckleberry upon shorn lips; 
and as a heather-laden calling beckons after her, Andraste sculpts her rubied crown from the fragrant-gummy bough she had been sampling. For moons and moons had half of her sights been made null, numb, void; but both look upon the great cloudgiant who might have been her brother without scars, or Guildenstern, returned to her. Peers up into those rabbit-soft eyes of untended earth—
—longs to touch, longs to look for the green that might very well grow from them. If it is in that pronounced accent then surely it must reside in his eyes, too!

Enchanted; beguiled;
acknowledges this with a wistful and half-listened cant of head.  “Foraging,”  the fée wisps, but not without some mysterious mischief.  “I intend to see what is still well,”  a soft simper, jam crusting,  “and return.”