Northstar Vale a grin as sharp as a knife (mtr.)

"No,"  chords sifting, strained.  "Sweeter."

A fairy queen for her vood elves  —  galvanized by that mountainshard wisp and dismantling begun by the cooing cruelty of the tundrian, Andraste feathers delicate the shorn temple further along those waiting lips, unquelled and aquiver; the elusive ache from several dawns before again rousing within starved stomach; meandering lower, lower, as cobwebbed lips mouth the blue down of throat-latch. It does not occur to she, with salt limning halfsight, that the warlord could very well strike her down for such an invasive, impassioned endeavor upon his person, no;
her tongue has found the lacerations to throat and now laves deep, each; holding herself now against heavied forelimb, arched along his shoulder; a shivery, weak warble fluting from the irregular beat of uncoveted heart therein.

The lukewarmth that they linger amidst has gone heady; the fogged essence of robinsegg water cloying. Lungs of cotton; she is tremulous, and does not swan about with what-ever seductress had possessed her in their last meet. Indignent, perhaps indecent, this; still, Andraste is suffocated with all that she fears of and feasts upon. What might be between the faerie and frontiersman, she does not know ... but it is welcome.

It is whole.