Hushed Willows And I won't help but stare at every word

The first request would remain unheeded, it seems;
she has never heard of a Stark, nor of the Keep which had presumably been the core of his own claim. But the hauntress aligns herself at the messenger's burnished ribs; momentarily captivated by the melding of autumnal and frostkept hides; speaks a tad somberlike throughout:  "Elysium was a haven, as much as I have known  —  and I fear to say that I know very little of its beginnings, or as to how it came to its end."  Pressed him into an absent, almost aimless promenade; argents resting into the lampglint gaze.  "I had ze privilege of attending only one of their festivals, last springtide. It was there that I met one named Olive  —  one of ze leading druids, you ken  — who would go on to become my ... ah, midwife,"  halfsights flit from the serpah's own, then; the same flush felt when the boy Seámus had listened to her first failure of motherhood.  "It has felt an age since I have been here. Even longer since I have seen ze faces of those I once knew."

Chords dwindling into some manner of silence;
and she is wearied for it; rests the shorn cheek but for a moment against bittersweet shoulder.  "What were ze willows like, for you?"  Perhaps he has told her two times, already, and four times more; yet Andraste cannot recollect as clearly as she would like to. Not at the moment.  "There is a grove, in my Court. It is not your birthing place, yet ..."