Deepwood Weald ᵇʷᵖ ilyë mahalmar ëa?

agh hope this makes sense

A simple nod; a humbled gesture;
and one that has her staring at heavenward at heartfire; gobbling, undiminished. As much as the silver would like to pursue a perch to better observe such phenomena, as much as she would like to continue to gaze in wonder ... her guest must be guided from here, first. She will not be forgotten.

Yet still the skies do not bleed into themselves as they usually do; vaguely, the starseeker's mind threads back to whispered fable of earthembers, and how they would make bronze the cherished blue.

Is this such a one?
And, should it be so, has it yet to sift the webweak weavings between all constellations?

Not a word leaves her shorn lips — not yet. Not as she stumbles through a stubborn knot of sedge that coaxes her to remain here. And even though the little lanterns within her skies cannot mend the severence of her soul, one glimpse upon the lurking Cassandra reminds her that she is here; would always be, for those of her Court.

All she can think as to enquire: "What do you think has made ze sky so ... ?" So terrible a fascination?