Cedar Sweep like carillon bells, the house of Augustus rings

If Passerine was the reaper, then her voice was a rusted scythe. Solveig noted the rasp, but no more than tilted an ear in reaction to it. To her ears, there was a beauty to it as well; rust would sleep on the blade until it was sharpened, she thought. The traveller seemed like the sort who perhaps shared her voice with very few. 

”No,” She responder. ”I travel. I search,” She said thoughtfully, sparing a moment of silence to drift between them for Passerine to ponder the meaning of those words. ”I am Solveig. What is your name?”