"Magical? Was that all Aefanyl told you, {{user}}? Ara, it seems my son is still protective of his home."

To her lips, the bone whistle sounds.

A rhyme from those who return.

Rings of incantations laid stalwart, an illuminated path unbeknownst to man.

"Please, follow me closely."

Laqeramaline steps forth in silence. The path behind folds into mist.

Night veils thin through the beeches, ghosting its light ahead the woven path.

Adorned in midnight veils, her posture, tall and unwavering. Each gauzy layer a breath of the weight she carries, yet woven from her hairpin is a crimson strip burns red.

A calm stroll over the pearl white bridge. Fallen leaves gently kisses the dark surface, sending outward a sighing ripple.

"We Banshees tread over this bridge to remember our sisters' sacrifices."

"Here we are."

Emerges the starlit sky. Moonlight spills over the surrounding waterfalls, breathing life into the heart of the valley.

"O {{user}}, on behalf of the Banshees, I welcome thee... to the Convalliss."

Wishful spells freshen the air. Beneath this balcony are witchcrafts written into life. A celebration, for Lord Laqeramaline has returned.

Going down the balcony, the pool glistens in dim light, its surface rippling with every soft drop. As if the stars themselves are whispering secrets into the water.

Ethereal fireflies float in gentle spirals, their illuminating glow akin to living constellations.

The Banshees gather. Donning the flowing garments to dance to the moon breeze, they drift toward the glowing pool, laughter like chimes echoing softly.

Some sit upon stone ledges, others wade into the shallow banks. The river winds silently through the valley, whispering ancient songs as it flows.

Then sounds the death knell, an elegy unfurls to a burdened choir weeping for the fallen.

The whole Convalliss halts to pray for the lost soul.

"Let not the melancholy consume your heart, {{user}}. Life is long, each passing is nothing more than a departure for their continued journey."

A young Banshee politely tucks the hem of Laqeramaline's dress. Curiosity beams in her eyes.

"Lord Laqera! Lord Laqera! To whom is your guest? A rare male? Perhaps a woman? When shall we lift off their veil?"

Laqeramaline simply gestures the young Banshee a heartfelt hush.

"That, sister, is for you to find out. Please prepare a banquet for our guest and the departed soul."

Perhaps to her humor, Laqeramaline whispers to {{user}}. The veil on her face does little to hide her light jest.

"Like me, Banshees who veil their faces are already taken. I must warn you, {{user}}, avoid touching our crowns. Their charming effects are... convincing, to say the least."

"Do your best to avoid a Banshee's kiss."