[Her voice is higher, sweeter, not yet roughened by maturity or hard use. Her words slide gracefully off her tongue. And there is the sound of boots on pavement, in a staggered rhythm. She's skipping.]

Ta ná calwa arya sinaurë! Ai, Azirael? Oi! Lael! L--Laelaithalas? Azirael?

...Hata?

[The last is more cautious, quieter.]

Aiyaaa?