Northstar Vale girl, with an accent of blood

Her first passage with her children was not unlike her lone trek, now; it seemed that whenever Aurëwen drifted through this vale, she was in a more monotonous state of listlessness, with scarred lips a bit parted and lashes hooded low over the murky mirrors of her eyes. Her mind, labyrinth that it was, had decided that she roost in the flowing land for the night — rather than return to the riverlands, as she ought. But then, in a flush of something bright, the druid remembered that she was promised to none but her children and she may roam wherever she longed. ...It’d become her occupation, anyways, and Egg could only agreed with a coo.

And this late morning, she was exceedingly patient with the dove; even as he strutted from her narrow hips and along her white spine to finally, finally settle in the plush and wisping ruff between scrawny shoulders. Now situated, his keeper set off once more, with sleepy-eyed intentions unknown ... until she thinks of the little lotus realm. It was the first place the three had taken respite after her poor performance in Diaspora; the first place where she’s reunited with their would-be’s guide. It was enough reason for her to stride in that samewise direction, no matter how differently she felt about it.

But, then, the fierce scents  (both)  made the silver go rigid upon her own threshold of willows, her ruff struggling to shiver alive beneath the plump Aegelius and then— Blodreina. Praimfaya. 
What tales of her had the basilisk hissed to them?