Pray, speak. She prayed she could speak at this very moment. Actually, she wished she could do so much more to him yet she refrained. She wrestles with the remnants of the inner influence as she wisps close. Her soft, fluffy high-pitched voice flows into Cyran's ear with a feverishly maniacal tone,
"You look absolutely ravishing in that Essail disguise of your's. Even when you're trying to conceal your identity, your appearance always remains so hexxing." A hot breath brushes against the shell of his pointy ear followed with a purr and light grazing of his shoulders, "I need to get my husband to don your attire as well the next time we visit Sal'thorin..~ I'll wear the ladies clothing here too and we'd match together..~ā”"
A quiet giggling fit is what comes after as her presence and voice soon fades from existence.
*Cyran turns instantly to discern the source of the voice, but there is nothing.*
You have been surprising me for the second time now. How? You are an unexpected force I must better guard myself against.
I can see, why my counterpart has chosen you, Magister ᓹįµįµįµŹ°ā±Ė¢.