Faengol stirs, eager to talk at first -
"The Ivory Wold...which tale to tell? There are areas of light, where elves sing with the trees - if you have the ear to hear it. Other areas are too dark to speak of. I dare not! No, instead I will speak of a season. Spring is always a favorite. The land bursts with green, and the gentle rain caresses the large leaves and gently rolls to the ground, beading up in small convienient orbs for the glânnae, er cleaners I beleive the word translates, to drink. The streams flow with such sounds. And the birds! To say their song is a wonder is to almost rob it of all glamour. It entrances and intices, asking you to soar along. With all this, it is the scent I miss most. The trees, moss, dew...it is all too much to describe. I'm afraid my words would not be able to do it justice. It is only in great need I leave at all."
With that he grows silent, as if his mind is far away in another place, another time.