Northstar Vale das gericht

the realm of mists beckoned, but until now, the quiet voice had not moved mahler. wylla had returned; she consumed many of this thoughts despite the fact that he was desperate for this not to occur.
and so the gargoyle set out on a journey to the vale before daybreak. he would return to diaspora when he was able, but for now, mahler felt naught but relief as he paced over the borders.
a long-legged wolftrot ate the miles, and it seemed only a short while before the gargoyle arrived upon @Andraste's threshold.
here the tall man prowled forward hesitantly, suddenly unsure if the dove even wished to see him. their last meet had ended coldly; but he drew forth all the same, asking her to the frosted emerald clime where he stood now.

Mondmädchen fair felt her heart’s blood leave her at such summons;
but the chambers still sought to gather them into arms and push a full and flushing bouquet of fright and fidgeting to waxen cheeks. For many a moment, she stood still and stock; an upheaval of myriad emotion winging every which way within shame-flushed breast; to flit to him and to see and to flee and to not!
Eventually, then;
before treading o’er that tell-tale rise, fairylight made sure  (as sure as she seemed!)  to sort her features into refinement, not restlessness; made the glistening of her cloudthick gaze easement, not elusiveness. Before she stept into the musiker’s view, she straightened; donned the mantle of Undómiel—
O! Mahler,
—and near fragmented the moment her sights found him.

No, no; he must not see the unending of her eye!
and so the neverqueen lifted the shorn chin, and addressed the General with all the grace she still prayed she held within her:  “Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo. To what do I owe ze honor of this visit, General?”  Rubied crown a heft of humility; gaze veiling for but a moment’s greeting; grounding. It was not the chill of their last meet that frosted within her own blood;
but rather, the fear for him of all that had perhaps festered within body and soul since.

andraste, queen of the elvish world; she attended mahler with a long ivoried stride, an aura of elegance her retinue. eternally beautiful; he would have glut his eyes upon the froreweave of her coming, but found himself still awkward as andraste drew close, gazed up at him with the scarification unable to veil her airy expression.
unable to tell what thoughts traveled in her mind, choosing to assume she bore him some sort of residual anger, mahler dipped his head in a formal bow that reflected his respect of courtfall's borders.
"i did not think i needed a reason to see you," the man returned in a quiet tone, impassive, keeping from his voice the marvel at how things had changed so completely between them.

"No,"
And there it was;
the weak parting of lips as the sound of envinyatar cleaved through the quiet shroud that had billowed within her very mind since he had ushered her from him. She must be dignified— must not let him know the cinching of her heart, nor the quiver within the moon-jaw—
and yet, the unquailing thing within her is sure that he would know. For all that had happened, had yet to, still she began to thaw; to awaken in the presence of him before her mind could wing to the workings of her figure; would that she felt all the elegance that the General had believed her to behold! 
so very faint, so very faraway; so longing in that such stiltedness would melt from his own; so yearning to see what the forger's truthful feelings lie therein crucible, however myriad. Instead:

"Not even for a promenade?"
and her soul threatens to shiver through the well-meant words; some fickle faux-fussing. So hastily does she squander such away, before canting the red-limned brow in some breath-held invitation. To move forth from necks that would crane and eyes that might spy.

something was afoot with andraste. she was reticent even in her grace; she was retiring even in her invite. so that was how deep their last meet had cut, mahler thought even as he let a wan smile flower to life on his lips. "i vould velcome a promenade."
strange, the pall that had been thrown over them like a tombveil. it muted the great heat that once leapt amid general and may queen, banking it down into embers that stirred only with a familiar warmth.
were they lovers still? had he ruined the promise with his adherence to practicality? but that was not the true reason, surely, for she was a woman in whom love thrummed around every fibre of her being — and he was a cur unable to return such a largesse of spirit.
"have you been vell?" mahler murmured softly, flanking andraste when she had presumably stepped off to set their scenic course through the snow-draped vale. her sentinels, did they watch even now? he wondered, steeling himself against glancing upward the towpaths that led into the silence of the high ridges.

This ivycrept longing;
it was so very unfamiliar from the plinth, the lair, the glen; this longing to lie him amongst furs that the summer shivering had forsaken them all of; for him to hold her as the sky holds the stars; for her to drape herself along him as the heavens be with the earth; this longing to know him and to know tales spun to him from whichever cardinal of this world he had came. This longing of laughter and of lovemaking; to soothe of him all misgivings that he might now have in this very moment. Lovers — she would not enquire if he did not voice his own longing; should he not wish for her as before.

"Ze Court has been well,"
she wisped, weak; Andraste trembled from the strife of this restraint of reaching and prayed that he would think it mere chill.  "We have struck an accord with a settlement in ze Emberwood,"  halfsights ever-shying; hesitant, with him so near.  "We are very well, yes—"  But so soon into their meet and she could no longer do this;
to be so squeamish behind the skirts of formality;
to use her very people in favor of her lack of wellness;
​and to be so unsure of why ever he was here.

And so Undómiel halts, shivering imperceptibly and it is not, then, only the tinge of frost; thin ears tucking away into feathered ruff.  "Perhaps, then, it would be better to continue discussion elsewhere."  Not inquiry, nor suggestion; and though Mahler could very well decline such, her own argents winged this way and that; shorn brow writ with a wish that they not be within such open elements, with the gentled winds to carry their words.

mahler could have continued with their stilted liasion for as long as it mattered. while uncomfortable, the state of being brusque, aloof, removed, was the musiker's nature. she had known this when they had first met; she would know it again if she wished. 
but swiftly the fey thing changed; he felt beneath her whispered words of goodwill a shift, and it was soon uttered on the suggestion they take up the frayed train of their last conversation. mahler did not wish to revisit it, or rather — some part of him, stubborn, boyish, dug in proverbial heels and refused to allow andraste the chance to whittle him into someone who would change his mind.
but mahler was not a boy; he was a man aware of his many faults despite a prodigous sense of pride, and so he nodded once. let her make their path; he would pace alongside her, answer her inquiries, and attempt to piece together an arrangement suitable for them both.
wylla.
how unfair that her face should rise now! distract him — she had insulted him, and the bruise of it was part of what had driven him to andraste's court, to mend the breach he had made, for now that he had suffered, he saw the dove must also.
inclining his broad muzzle, the garogyle gave his silent agreeability to her plot and waited for her to move onward.

She spoke not, now;
through glen and glade was the General lead, with the boreal’s back ever to him and the red latticework woven o’er fair musculature;
the ache therein one of myriad reason that Undómiel eventually drew him to the cascades of the baths which she had all but kept revelation on to her own self — the faint sulfuric findings of which were to be gifted unto her own Courtiers, what with a bargain struck and the hopes of flourishment yet to come. But this was not where she meant to converse with him, no;
and neither was it the cathedric lagoon which she cautioned him the descent of, with its smoothed crag of limestone, great sun-lights within rafters, and its own demand for more than one pair of wary eyes, no;
instead, she murmured all else, and wound her way ‘cross the low ridges from this yawning chamber in favor of the thrumming network otherwise; and it was one such path that the fée delved down down down, until—

"I misspoke,"  Andraste lent, speaking now of the moment that had just occurred and, hesitantly, perhaps, of her ... last moon’s profusion. T’was not entirely her focus, that, as of yet; for she then quieted, and shrugged her way into some unassuming alcove amidst this shame she had again brought unto herself — and discontent she had brought forth of his;
sat herself down near the sulfuricless and warmed waters; furled her brow into the marred reflection; shoulders softening.

"I did not think that I would see you again."  She surely could not say all that had already been said; but peered at him from over a surrender of a spire, features now thawing without her leave — tried to hold his eyes with her own, if for only the sake of ... she did not know.

she led him down beneath the earth to where heat rose in a transparent shimmer, filling him with a welcome warmth unheard of in these months. the winter pallor dissipated, and he passed beyond reach of her sentinels, until they were alone, fully and truly.
there rose in him then a sense of unsurety once more; she would want of him, and while he had yielded, had lusted before, mahler knew that his desires had now placed him into a precarious position. the warning he had received from the returned wylla rang, but he steeled himself against it. she was not involved with these things; there was no need for her to give tongue upon the choices he had made before she showed herself upon diasporan borders
returning from his distraction, his reverie, mahler blinked once at andraste's words, a startled sort. "vhy vould i not come back?" he inquired, muzzle tilting toward her — had he made so little of himself in her eyes?

"You have so much on your shoulders, of course,"  the fée intoned quietly, thawing features inscrutable yet not at all unkind.  "So much to prepare for."  He was anything but diminished in her regard; her words without the harbored fury. No — there was only the musing of delicate and mothwing care:  "I would not condemn you if you chose to stay away, to tend to your own. Accord, or no."  Andraste rose, then, as if she might step to where he sat; thought better of it; rooted herself with a crease in shorn brow.  "Mahler,"  his word a slow sigh from riddled lips,  "it was never my intention to overwhelm you, and yet—"
and yet, through the shroud of them and the mutedness of their meet, somewhere, the stricken still simmered for him in the manner that only he knew. But the rubied crown hung; the plainness of this present tongue as taxing as ever; and so there was a flush of some frustration to be had, never for him but for her and it settled within the silver as silence. She seemed to melt to ivory; gaze glimmering with the guilt of such a sweet existence for all that her vessel felt for his own and more. Until:
"You hold me. How ... how could I not worry for your wellness?"

She cannot resist turning from him; the shying;
eyes veiled and figure soothed now into something vanquished.

andraste held such blame
within herself; it mirrored his own negative regard of what he had done, of who he was, of what he could not grant. the difference was that mahler was entirely deserving of his inward scorn, while the dove was the very sum of goodness.
did she not even now sit in council before him, and seek to mend the sundering of him, asking nothing in return but the tilt of his ear? andraste, so very earnest; her devotion drove mahler to abject shame.
but he refused to wilt before her, to humiliate himself further even in the name of vulnerability to their looming union. he was a logical beast; he did not think in terms of good and of evil, but if ere he did, it was marked here in this moment.
honesty; it tightened his lips and at last mahler sought the synopsis which would formally grant andraste what it was she needed to truly formulate a decision regarding the future.
"your care is returned. your regard is returned. but i cannot love you in the same vay," mahler ventured, a deep spearing ache skulking in his chest, "because i am not at liberty to love when i am made for a single being."
the low drawing of an uncomfortable breath. "i care so very deeply for you, aurëven," the gargoyle intoned, lilac eyes filled with something inscrutable and nameless, wild; how she drew these untitled things into being from his flesh he did not know.
"and if anyvone has brought me close to such, it has been you."

happy 1k posts ;a;

Somewhere within Stormcloak, far, far away, there was something that fractured crisp and clear and clean; like frost within the fairylight whose gleam had now begun to diminish.

Had it not been she to reawaken and remake him?
Why must this enlivenment of him never be enough?
Which god had seen it righteous in making a soul so unending in love when such had never been returned?

​It is endless and dark and distant and high, here, and she does not look up; her marred muzzle swung low and the faded fury upon silver spine made living tapestry by the origins of all her shivering. A muted sob is caught fast with the piercing of fangs into the shorn lower lip; the quieted and heaving breaths smothered by the cinching of throat, the slathering of tongue to the roof of mouth. The vaulted ceiling feels heavy; the crag grasping, the steam constricting; remnants of all that is gone and, she thinks, gone for-ever lain across her thin shoulders and bent back;
and it is only the preternatural feat that is all that she has felt within herself in myriad manner for Mahler that would move her; but there is no strength left within her and no surety, now, that he still looked upon her as desirable for look! She weeps so!
withering, wilting— shuddering and stilling again again again with everything of her that is aching, in this most ancient of moments—

"Andraste,"  she insists with salted, dumb lips; begs;
but it was Aurëwen — entirely Aurëwen who wilted to stone and felt not the warmth of the waters.

All is as it was once, then.

sunmarked and struck through with a singular anguish, agony climbed through the very binding of andraste's form, and it scourged mahler with cold blue fire.
not merely the saltwater of a demure tear; this the roiling brine of an aggrieved sea, features veiled completely from him now. her sobbing crept into his marrow, her shudderings into the fel veins that inspired such wickedness within the worthlessness of his being.
and now even in her dark hour she struck her true title from his lips, and the rock face of mahler at last came undone. 
it was not he who paid the terrible price for the liaisons they had shared, it was the fairy queen with her glimmering throat full of sorrow.
i have been so very cruel, and in this moment the gargoyle wished for death, if only for the selfish release from the throb of her misery.
mutely he too downcast his features, a silent homage to the testament of what it meant to love him.

Anguish, for the soul most precious to she; even now she was perturbed for his sake; pined so foolishly—
now rises in a flushed fright and rushes to the musiker in some breathless; does not let him see the features gone hollow and fey and everwild as she nears and nears and nears; does not let him feel the first of her shiverings and shudderings as she shifts, lips parted with some throatless sorrowing as she reaches for the desolation of Mahler;
and the mumurings ; a keen of tearlashed longing that had no place within such an instance as this; and yet, was it not the very same happenstance which had tethered their fraying souls together first upon the plinth?

Andraste, Aurëwen; both and neither and entire—
The fée should not should not be kissing sweet each and every scar upon his breast; should not hunger as savage for him within her as she does now; should not yearn to be within the arms of yet another who would not love her as she wished. She should not seek to soothe whatever and every hurt she believes she has brought unto him, for he had not once been beneath the drapery of the stricken's scorn. And yet and yet and yet
once more
before their end.

rising, pining, the tidal force of her sudden shift from oceanic grief to desperate lust — mahler surrendered all desires of his own and allowed himself to be carried flotsam upon the lashing waves of andraste's hot mouth.
unwilling to resist — let her drink all that she wished from the very hollow of his bones, a liqueur as payment for the mahler-cracked heart hanging painfully in her downy breast.
why did she come to claim him even in the tightening grasp of his answering desire, why did he not pause them, why did he not speak to her as an equal, as a lover might croon words of soothing to a fractured soul?
because he had no ability for any of these things, mahler gave himself up to be devoured, and swept her close and down and into the range of fanged kisses that stole the lines of her throat, her chest with its delicate fluted collarbones — answering, answering.

She was faerie, yes;
wild and fey and she would devour everything of him. She would put her mouth on him and gorge herself, she thinks, and she would make him remember what it felt like to be inside her. She would make him ache for her lips and agonize for her throat and hold his hips for all of it; pleading for and preying upon the very vessel of Mahler; and she would give and give and give and give and give and give and give and
she looked into those eyes that she had come to hoard within her heart and writhed within his arms. She felt the fangs at her breast and it was not enough would not ever be and it was a soft and surrendering warble that left the throat he so bit — she did not wish to breathe, did not want to think amidst the mists of her veilmade mind or the darkening feverthing bleeding the edges of halfsight;
something now snarled low and sonorous in his mothertongue; the stricken, terrible and tormented, now; laved tongue and tooth into all that she could not reach of the heather ruff; galvanizing and growling in a way thay she had not ever once before.

Savage and hungering; haunting, she;
did he not truly ache for her, then, if he would not wrest her from herself and upon him? Did he not think himself up to it? Could he not? Would he not
take her?

andraste was questing, purling, her pursuit determined, tinged in desperation. mahler did not understand why she approached him so, why the delicate frame of her had wended into his embrace, why the dove sought the corporeal from the choking dust of what he had admitted only moments prior.
the taste of salt upon her lips; the shadowpriest's mouth roved over one closed eyelid and then another, a feral sound beginning in the depths of his broad marred chest; he swept her close with a powerful forearm, demanding fiercely of himself that for andraste's sake the guilt and shame and visage of the yellow-eyed woman be relinquished, given up, so that his flesh might become less wary.
the shattering was complete — from his lips had risen the coldest sort of brutality he might offer the cinereal seraph who wrapped slim arms around him and breathed blessings into the undeserving parts of mahler.
and yet she sought their meet all the same, insistence writ into the forging of her finely sculpted features — it was not with reluctance that mahler answered, only with a heady sense of despair
was this the seal of their end?
and, continually flummoxed by the keening arch of his heartbroken lover, met her call with a rough, easy shifting of her slight frame until she was pillared on all sides beneath him, and his teeth had found catlike the finespun gossamer of andraste's exquisite nape.

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: tbh i don't tag my content anymore BUT seeing as we r venturing into the realm of filth from here on out it seems appropriate lmaooo

Snarling even within his hammered arms; revolting against the hold of his fangs until she wrests her skull enough so she might seize Mahler with an eye that still sees; look upon the lashes he had kissed; aligns, and does not await;
sights veil as the ache is scarce done away with; the angular arching of her strick spine only deepening as Andraste envelops him inch by torturous, near-timid inch until she is flush against the gathering of his still hips; but is not at all finished,
for she claims him with a constricting cinch that she drags up and up and up and only when she reaches the crown of him does she relax the little release before she delves down upon him again and again and again until Aurëwen diminishes herself entire by holding him as savagely as she needs him; parts from him not one slathered sliver as the grand General is rutted deep within her decadence; the ruining of them both has her shorn skull lolling within his restraint—
—eventually, eventually rocks to a halt.

For now  (should his grasp slacken)  she could rest her cheek to stone and tell the lie that this was not the end and that such shatterings had never once been; now entreating soft and sweet:  "Es ist alles für dich,"  lips parting as she shuddered beneath him; smoldered around him; coaxed that mouth nearer with the half-bearing of her throat to the smothering airs — a weak and preything plea of this possession of her neck that was not the nape.

For now, she let herself falter for the musiker. Let him desecrate her, now.

it went with the efficacy of cult worshippers, each reveling in one another, such an emphatic display of decadence it might have sickened onlookers with the sheer theatre.
thankfully they had no audience, and it was due so such that mahler allowed himself the catharsis of meeting andraste bodily and fully, mind interlocked into the actions and turning to steam that blew forth from
his nostrils and scorched the back of his dove's head.
petted and held and snared by the net of her tonality, he surrendered, and curved breathless against her. 
all lethargic dragonfire now. mahler smote her throat once with the bite of his teeth and let himself decamp to his own body when they had at last come undone.
"ve are not good at speaking," he remarked when he had regained himself
watching her placidly as he spoke, mahler felt the heat of them rising round the cavern, and let his tongue loll in a quiet exhibition of a sated creature.

Unsated; unadorned;
the delicate and wan features were weakened by the beastglint gaze that the faerie looked to Mahler with as she heard the words which he had to say. His tranquility — the shorn lip furled in utter discontent; dismissive of his lax diction;
she had meant to make him writhe for her, to remember her by this hour; to have him thrice between her thighs and twice down her throat; to have him above her and despairing for the depths of her; quivering in the afterquiet of ministrations all. For though sweet and softened Undómiel would ever be, this meet had withered her into some substratal and wildling she-creature that held the stone with pearlmade claws and stared at this ... this male who was not as exhausted as she would have made him be; not in as an enervated a vulgar stupor that every single utterly gluttonous forever imperious female nerve so shrieked her to exact.

He had not taken her;
not in the least.

Had she been unraveled far and further past the foundations of her very sensibilities, the stricken might have snarled that she did not suspect there would be much talking in the spring, and that he would not again find that might sunder him twice and, O! — how she has dreamed thrice—
this thought begs for a simper; and so she does, syren; with the tongue to part lips with the laving-over of fangs at the reverie of the musiker left to drown within her.

... But Andraste is not so thoroughly frayed as to forget her own words. Smote at throat; speared through heart. The salt of worn sorrows and raw sensuality are unheeded, for now, she raises an unquailing chin and looks the priest o'er through lashes thick with a rare hauteur that was vastly ... queenly:

"Thus it is, General. I admire your efforts, however,"  ever smiling teeth and taunting; wickedness,  "to plead my name as I ended you."

her displeasure smote whiplike at him, and mahler looked upon her with a growing sense of irritation as catlike andraste cast first her silent barbs, and then the flute of mockery rose to her throat.
she meant to goad him, to spite him until the masculine was spurred — mahler grew cool from where he rested against the stone floor, but bore her heavy glances and imperious countenance with his usual retiring nature.
she would shame him for her own dissatisfaction, when his body had borne a great loss in the past months? mahler was pragmatic; he could not dally here and spin about with her in paroxysms of desire all the while, not when his obligations loomed high and fierce above his head even when slumber had claimed him?
he was spurned; she unsated, and the thorn of her tongue was a wounding blow to his efforts. not a sensual beast by many means, mahler had allowed andraste to unravel him into exposed lusts and pockets of desire.
and now she had become another of those clamoring for more than he was able to give; wearystruck and rankled, mahler lifted his great heft carefully to limbs that had lost their pleasant tremble.
and here he met her moonkissed pout with a sweeping stare that lingered upon her sun-carved flesh and veiled eyes, lips briefly thinned into a caricature of a smile before they parted completely despite himself —
"i plead nothing from you, andraste," and there the briarpatch of how he remembered she had torn away aurëwen and installed in its place the porcelain idol of pearled coolness and haughty sateen carnality.
darkened plume flared at his hips; mahler began to search for the path down which he had been led before the meet that was so plainly unsatisfying in its very existence.

"Oh, now, Mahler — with a cunt such as this, I very much doubt anyone could."

Sneering with shorn lips at that flared retreat; sighing near euphoric upon the stone where he had tried to take her; some ecstatic murmuring fluting from her breast as Undómiel gives her eyes to the deep and dark vaulted reaches of her lair and lets this murmuring burble into a malacious mirth that is not at all of the gentled greenseer that the musiker had once known; the one who had only wept herself tearless thrice into his arms and now had seen to indulge the remnants of herself in the wringing all of him from cullions that now not even she could not coax to brimming!

So made for love, she;
and yet as the Undimming rose to find her own footing, she knew that never again would she let such a thing take up settlement within that beating and bleeding breast. She knew now that the musiker would not ever belong to her in the way she had so yearned to belong to a man. But, then — it had not been she who held him as not another could ever have! It must have been only this aching thing between her thighs that had coaxed him to her again and again and again, to the plinth and to the lair and the glen and here, it was all it would ever be—

She did not think of the spring, and all that it would and would never hold. Instead:
"There is no use in pretending that you did not breathe for it,"  was the sonorous slander, now; sidling all serpentine to the heather flank.  "But I will not have you lost amongst my halls in your state of fatigue."

If he would not fall to his very knees for her, then unheeded he would be;
should he now not rise to her and deign to put these doubts to rest.

andraste had played her hand, and though he would not lie and say that her words had no effect upon him, mahler withdrew into the cool breadth of self and commented nothing upon her vulgar and insistent claims.
he was not made to be roused, and now that the truth of it was between them, such reactions could have occurred only if one he loved had spoken in such a way.
but for all the affections he bore andraste, that deepest sensation was not among them. and he so up he prowled the narrow path that had led them down beneath the surface.
mahler was not above the bitterness that had risen amid their desires: he has given, she has given. they had both done the taking of it, and now! and now!
it was the flat glitter of amethyst he turned upon small cruel andraste now, and recalled the words of verx echoing within the recesses of his skull. ”a cunt can be had anyvere, mein herz.” the general rejoined sharply before he had traveled a scant handful of steps, ”and yours is not the only vone i have enjoyed.”
mahler paused now, posing as he had before the young leader of grimnismal so long ago, aware of his stature and the handsomeness many found writ into his bearing. ”but make no mistake, andraste: i have chosen you to be the lovely dust from vich vill come my nation.”
lips ruined a smile with a humourless glimmer; mahler spared elf-queen a final stare before turning away and continuing up to the winterbit glow of the above world.

Oh!— that she would spit how auspicious of him it was, to have stuck his lame cock into several such cunts  (irresistible, the pitying of whomever they were),  if only to remind himself where to find such a coveted thing!—
yet it is the loveless endearment and the regalia and the promise that ends her as she has given her hand in the ending of them and he leaves her; mouthlesd amd eyeleks andndand
whelpish; ugly and
naked and
cr a wli ng 
to the waters yes the waters steaming calling bringing her beckoning her yes she must return forget yes

Like a babe in a womb the silver again lingers for as long as she dares; claws anchoring deep into mire [...] caging breath within lungs that soon quiver for the airs above. Here, in the dim and shifting lull, she is breathless, heartless, sightless.

for he cannot reach her, here.