Ayorra rose at dawn, as was her custom. Though she had spent several months in the city, old habits die hard, and she had not picked up the custom of "sleeping in," as some of the non-elves here refered to it, or "a large waste of time" as she refers to it. The elderly Hathran isn't particularly fond of her lavish quarters in any case--she would prefer more sparse Rashemi furniture and decorations, but appearances must be maintained--so she spends most of her time outside of her quarters, making friends with the native population and doing magical research in her spare time to keep herself sharp.

She had little desire to speak with the Cormyrian delegations, though she arrived in the city at roughly the same time they did. She was here to be ambassador to the elves, not to the humans, and she held no small disdain for a people who couldn't even govern their own country effectively. After a few offhand comments about how the Wychlaran would never allow a civil war to happen, the Cormyrian delegations didn't seem particularly interested in speaking with her either.

The third day of the last tenday was the anniversary of her husband's death, and she spent it locked in her quarters, communing with the spirits and reminiscing. The unfamiliarity of the local spirits made her long for home even more than the ongoing strange dreams did, which made last night's invitation a welcome relief from the introspection. That the local spirits had no idea what was causing said dreams was even more disconcerting. After performing her usual morning rituals to bind various spirits and magic to herself, she donned her formal robes and mask and went to call upon the coronal.

When she arrived at the designated place a few minutes early, Ayorra spotted an elf already waiting by the door. The elf looked tired and nervous, but then Ayorra expected that from a relatively young scholar invited to meet her leader. She had passed the elf once or twice in Windsong Tower, she believed, but they hadn't spoken and the Rashemi wasn't familiar with her area of research. As Ayorra approached the door she noted another elf approaching, this one closer to her age (or the equivalent, for an elf) and not wearing the usual formal elven attire. The witch smiled momentarily as she noted his sheepish grin, glad to see someone else who was concerned for results more than appearances, and she changed paths to meet him.

"Good morning, friend," she greets him politely. "I notice you are slightly under-dressed for the occasion. If you will permit me, I can assist you with that." Many Rashemi berserkers went directly from the battlefield to meetings with Hathran during long engagements, and Ayorra was used to dealing with worse than mud stains. With a wave of her hand, she prestidigitated away the mud and faded patches in the elf's cloak and added a good dose of sandalwood and citrus scents for good measure; those elves and their love for perfumes never ceased to amuse her. This done, she extended a hand to the warrior. "Well met. I am called Ayorra, daughter of Danirra, of the Selskhiva family. I do not believe we have been introduced...and if we have met in the Tower," she adds to Sydil, "I do not recall it."