Northstar Vale Wandering Child

Here, Andraste could make this walk in her sleep —
(not that there had been any of it, this day)
— or rather, strives to coax this vale into revealing more of its own self to her and its new settlers; knows that she would like to know it like the back of her paw: each lazy elbowing of a spire-cold river, crisscrossing the southern foothills, each curve of hillock and valley. She wishes to knows the peeking clutches of pines that stand like muted sentinels in the frostbound earth; the stars that splay across the mouthless celestium at night, guiding with unending gazes. 

The earth has opened for this Court; light streams out through montane jaws; 
and when there is a summons Undómiel so attends, pearlmade claws scouring deep into thaw and loam and with a small prance, she strides from the place of her musings at a steadied lope;
eventually finds this female of amber gossamer, winter-withered lungs a tad breathless; but draws forth with cautionary calm, shorn brow canting in greeting nonetheless. Lips part:
"Wind guide you, wanderer,"  wisping, halfsight both distant and kindly.  "What has brought you to ze realm of this Court?"