Sunbeam Lair bez snu mnie wyśnij

paging @Awol, all welcome tho

From the southern premises of vale did Undómiel tread;
having sent the ever-burning Andromaque on return for respite from their joint patrol of the evening, half of what properties the flament and starlit had managed to forage, here. Lonesome; with only the quiet of unwintered green and the echoes of dead avowal to whisper to her in a night that is low, long. The fée steps down from the higher reaches of this sunless Lair; sunknived spine to Court and the dim of dark only serving to coax her further, farther, for she does not believe that lurking therein is the lioness of half-fortnight past. No;
for her wolves, she has shut the wondering at a venture to Cantatis; nevermind her own selfish and sorrowing aversions: she would not let another of her realm dance with death, lest she be by their side ... and, if ever an opportune instance presented itself, she would warn some druid or nomad or other of such a looming presence within the spires.

Andraste meanders; a pale shadow and a thought.

The fallen angel had been given into restlessness once more, and took his chances when venturing from the territory of Uaine. Still, no structure and no order. It agonized him beyond belief. Bhediya had seem to disregard his ponderings — and well, he had once again crowded his insecurties down into the depths of his heart, wherever it may lay.

Rendered cold and with no direction; life had no purpose as of late. 

An outcrop, and then a lair, sunless it seemed, hugging the  mother mountain, a part of it. If his information served him well, the province of Courtfall resided here. It was not long before he saw a woman, scarred to a point where it was beuatiful, she emitted pure regalness. 

Fair lady, out in this cold? Alone? "Excuse my intrusion on your thought m'lady, I am Awol from Uaine Gorsedd. Are you hailing from Courtfall? What absorbs you in so much thought?" he asked suddenly, keeping a safe distance from her, for his late encounter with a wolf of her pelt color had left him with a fight. But he had handled it well and came out the victor, and was not afraid of this beautiful, but possible attacker.

Resonance of voice;
and the echoes become corporeal, in the make of a shrouded male who wonders aloud as to her own origins, her name  —  which one?  —  and what-ever it is that holds her in such meandering quietude. Mondmädchen is content to rest where she stands, and to look this Uaine-claimed specimen not unlike some artisan, musing alone and within mind as to where she first might sketch the chalk to the ashen canvas of him. But already there is the smudging upon crown, spilt and staining inkish along spine; daubed and dried upon the cold wax of his throat. The toffee mouth; might she draw nearer, and see if there is that tell-tale tang? She longs to reach out and touch upon the eccentrics of him;
of course she does.

Of course she does.

"Aye,"  the willow wisps; shorn lips quivering misted; imp,  "captivated by no one thing."  The wilting and the weeping and the wishing: nothing nothing nothing! Simpering with shy fangs; trickster lambthing.

The woman's reply only interested him more. Her words were like the wisps of wind, and her scarred lips...this woman had stories to tell, no doubt.

The man gingerly stepped closer towards her. "I see. I am also plauged by mnay things that keep my on my toes. Perhaps talking about them...would ease you in the slightest?"

That he was mere stranger had nothing to do with the silver's silence, then;
it was in that such plain tellings had been very much so taxing in only the few instances when they had been necessary. She could not tell this male of the one who had broken a heart that still beat for the voice of him  (but might wax melancholy of how heavy a thing weighs within breast?); she could not spin tales of her own seeking that thin and fragile and glass thing that had fractured within her  (far too much of speaking, all figment-like and shut-eyed); she could not tell him how, instead, she had turned her halfsights to the wild hunt of a beast that was ever-lurking in this winterbit season  ...  but, perhaps, she could service him in the saying of it:

"Ease will be had,"  musing half-mystery,  "when a lioness lurks ze spires no longer."  Rocks once-lovely features aside, so that some evenlight might fall upon the raw addition to the shorn guise; gaze lidded languid, limpid.  "I entrust that your druids will come to know of this?"  Mere member, it seems, she;
who turns sunknived back to the ivyspined Awol and treads further into shadowed green.

 

this needs to hit 10 posts for it to be legible for a trade thread, if that's okay? ;; 

She seemed so mysterious — he felt so led on by her, her scars spoke to him. She had endured much worse then the punishment of a mother, so to speak. Her voice flushed his ears in beuatiful waves, elegant beyond realization. 

If all the ladies in Courtfall were like her, well, he may have to reconsider his options.

The lady kept her answer vague, and the scarred and dubbed fallen could respect that. "I'd be willing to chase any old lioness back to the wrecthed hole they hailed from, my services are always available," he replied gracefully as the woman turned her blemished back to him, retreating to the depth green.

Standing up to return a better view of her, "I'll be sure to notify everyone, yes. You never told me, what is your name?"

sure <3

"They are not mine to tell,"  impling of hauntcraft and elfin simpers,  "for they are two, and there is only one who has known myself beneath each. He is enamored with ze first, if you should know  —  though I, however,"  the fée so deigns to purl,  "rather much prefer ze second,"  and finally faces about once more with a look of some mirthful-making mischief. This ashen Awol is charming, she supposes;
in that allegiant and unwavering way, with his little promises and his drawn brow and his jaw set with gracious earnestness; the fairylight delights in it all to near dimpling, and for now witholds the stonewalled name of he who has remade her and dismantled her and knows of each name and more and more and more. Instead, she allows her mind to again alight upon the hunt that is to be had:

"I find that she is weak, when one's weight is administered upon her shoulders,"  and informs of such by stepping ever nearer, so that the unassuming pink of her nose might touch featherish the inked hackles; letting the pale of her ribs catch along his own,  "weak, and wrathful. If ever yours should have ze misfortune to be set upon by her, I suggest that you be three steps ahead."

The young man couldn't help — help but wither gracefully under that mischevious gaze, it struck him like the lightning that struck her all those days ago. Though he did not knwo this, her words struck him just as the same, in a beuatiful and mysterious way.

He longed to know more about the siren, forever encaptured in a painting of awe, mixed with pigments of adoration and personal desire.

"A she...yes, I'll be sure to investigate that. If you'll allow me through your territory or wherever the lions may be, perhaps you could devise a plan with me and our own comrades," he proposed skillfully, his silvered toungue liquid gold, perhaps the samhe hunger driven gold that consumed the love and duaghter of a king dubbed Midas. Here he was, attempting to woo the lady with his;
somewhat unwavering charm.

tiny post srysry but tried to give u enough <3

There is something, here;
something that makes Andraste neglect the misery abed within breast; some elf thing of nigh exhilaration take up post within her; to flute to her desecrated features with a wild and fey smile.  "I am unable to grant such a request, lest I first reason with Undómiel. In ze meantime, I beg of you,"  musing in sighs,  "to ask for ze Diasporan lord who knows of my names."  The undertones therein her chords; perhaps of her insignificant meddling there might come of this some accord betwixt Mahler's meanderers and the druids  (lest they had already done so!), and perhaps too word of the wretched Maud would make its way throughout the spires;
Awol may only ask of a name, or two; he may conclude to all of the above ... but it would be up to the ashlar before her, to wend through the webs of her workings. 

"When you have done this, I ... suppose you will come to Court, no? Such an idea must be carried out."  Gaze glinting; she would not yet doubt his intelligence; lips curling with faux wickedry.

Sorry for the late reply, dealing with some stuff! and thank you <3

It elated his spirtits to see the woman's face light up. It was very rare when he could tap so gingerly into the happiness of others and paint a pink smile on graced lips of the stricken...

"Undómiel? What a peculiar title... please, consult them," the scarred mused softly before nodding faintly towards the may queen. "Are you asking me to go on a quest..to request the leader? I can do that, if it benefits you in any way." 

Her miniscule sigh (who's breath enchanted his sensitive, chilled nose, how ticklishand warm she was!) , he contemplated her last bold inquiry.

"Of course, maybe you could show myself 'round the territory...perferably th most serene spots," he whispered the last few words with a small taint of mischievousness, inviting hijinks to ensue.

it's fine <3 last post from me since yours will be the 10th, i think?

A mere nod for his first request;
and to the second, it is a hum that issues from the fluting of throat.  "My Undómiel has terms with ze Uaine wherein exists a bartering system of medicinal stores  –  perhaps, then, a route of sorts might be established between us all. A ... Sunspire Triangle, if you will."  As for seeking leadership:  "If such an idea appeals further to your Archdruid and, perhaps, to ze General ... well, we should not treat our neighbors as savages, no?"
Mahler's refusal had no place, here; though retreat of her presence he had, with dust upon lips she would not ever bestow a kiss upon again  —  this might be the benefit of all three allied.

So she allowed the ashlar to whisper to her, let the gleam of his eye rove o'er her, and listen the supplication he so proposed; lips pressed thin at the thought in her head that was neither full of muskier's notes or druid's nascent musings.  "Perhaps,"  was all that she wisped, airy, unassuming; rising to snowshoe paws to drift towards the Lair's entrance.  "In time, watch ze spires, singollo."

With a bid of farewelling came a final simper at all evidence that she had veiled from the sibyl so far; with a feathering of tail, Undómiel made her departure;
eager for the counsel of her Courtiers and the company of a warlord.