Deepwood Weald ²tenn' enta lúme

A growth of wavering amsonia had seemed to beckon next for the stricken’s trace, and so, seeing no reason as to let this selection go unheeded; she went, she hunkered into fronds once more, and other than the trickle of making water, all is low, quiet ... before a forsaken name is breathed to her through the mists and is proferred to her with tones of familiarity.

In this moment she felt entirely unlike the figurine of ladyship that she was attempting to assume; more-so felt entirely like an ill-behaved goblin, hunkered down in the greenery. Yet that spoken name was one from another life, another heart — another vessel entirely. Who-ever Aurëwen had been had been dismantled within the Fade, and when Andraste had awoken she had forever ascended beyond herself.

But Aurëwen must have known many in that past life;
so the silver turns her shorn crown, hesitant, tail feathering modestly along one willowy thigh; sees the argent face, the gold-hot eyes; in the end, there is only the vaguest recollection and a name that flutes from her own mem’ry:  “... Agana.”

The mistress of the weald  (heavens, she means to be!)  carefully picks her way from her post to better regard the far-northerner before her; moonchased gaze waxes over the figure, finding no outward injury that she has yet to discover, for — “Have your travels been well? Ze earth, it ... moves.”