Redsand Canyon I wanna build something that's gonna outlive me

In the hours before her Mavroimë matron would relay vagrant missive that would send the fairylight into an errant little frenzy  (with gringlee riposte!),  the fée’s composure had been stillpond, and when she had ventured out to the redstone spires, she had dismantled all vestiges of Undómiel in her descent of the gorge. She had been here twice before, if her memory should serve correctly:
a brute of a man, entranced by her stumbling step and enquiring after the new blindness, the new scarification, the new newness within her features;
a girl, all inkwell and raven-feathered filaments, engrossed in the fairylight’s earless tune;
Lylr. Lainie.

But! she has little time to wonder where they have wandered;
for there is a young specter with a quiet step, all brushstroked sumi-e over rabbitskin parchment and overspilt rapture and owlperched; Andraste stares, ever-shameless; held fast by the imagery before her that smarts nostalgia for past familiars throughout herself like the sharp daubing of inexpert calligraphy. When they had relieved themselves of her, she had let them; 

For now, though, Andraste lets an airy chirrup flute from her breast, if only to make her own presence known  (if not already.)