It's dark, here; the sky is mostly black, through the trees, with the faintest tinge of indigo still sitting on the western horizon. There's a campfire, burning low, and a bank of candles, mostly lit, and two people. The light glints off the silver and multicolored enamel one, who's sitting on a stool petting the hair of the other, an ordinary-looking human woman wrapped in a black cape sitting on the ground with her shoulder resting on the other's thigh.
"Coljad Laugalf," the silver one says, solemnly, and another candle flares quietly into light.
"Krirei Inghwea." Another candle.
"Elbroens Nousre." Another. She's been at it for a while; there are more than eighty candles here, and nearly seventy of them are lit.
"Toiti."