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The ether trembles to the faint vibrations of a sweet elven voice; though so small, its intensity disturbs even the soundlessness of the Void, stirring Xeua's delicate yet powerful connections. The song continues into a place that is placeless, timeless, uncomprehensible to human minds.
Yet should one attempt to convey its powerful beauty in human terms, one might imagine a lush garden dripping with unearthly fruits, rich with greenery that glows of its own, flowers carpeting each surface. One might look along the moss-carpeted path to the crystalline waterfall, following the tiny lilt of elven music, to where a figure of statuesque loveliness stands, white arms bare, curving figure draped in a golden-brown brocade that seems woven of vines and braided grains. A wreath of fruits and flowers crowns her head, which she tilts as the song's poignant refrain ceases.
Still the echoes linger, "...Jeyriall.... cold....my prayer...home..." and the great divine eyes pool with liquid. Full red lips lose their enigmatic smile and part, a word of power floating on their curves, ready to be released.
Then the goddess pauses, as if in regret. She breathes out - a perfume as of ripe pear - and in again before she speaks, full bosom swelling in emotion.
Through the Void, the ecua, the xeua, the intangible stuff of the air - however they travel, they come, her words, like malise humming over spring blossoms, like the rustle of autumnal leaves in harvest, flickering along the strings of the little elf's harp so that they thrum of their own accord, forming the soft answer.
"My sweet small one. Ah, would I could snatch your bard from her mortal preoccupations, transport her mystically to stand upon this floor, allow her to forget her human hurts and anxieties in your soothing poetry - which, indeed,"
here the Lady of the Cup pauses, a soft smile flickering by, "indeed I love to hear, with its sincerity and integrity, in My praise or imploration, as much as she has done. Yet, My child, she is no follower of mine, and e'en she were, I could not seize her in some rough magickry, portal her hither, without her knowledge and consent."
The harp strings vibrate sweetly for a moment, the music a trickle of water over pebbles, then the words resume. "This, though, may I do for you, for the love you bear Me. Speak to her I shall, in the music she loves, in the lyrics of your poem, filling her heart with a yearning for this place once again."
There is a brief ripple from the harp, like divine laughter. "It is not often a goddess will serve as messenger, even for one of our elven folk, my dear one, so you may cherish this as proof of the affection in which I do hold you!"
The music ceases with a jar and a tremble, and the firelight seems to die briefly then leap again, perhaps only visible to the one for whom the message was intended.... and the presence of the deity fades from mortal awareness.
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