Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ dornröschen (mtr.)

15th September.  After talks with the queen, the ward again evades her routine seeing-to for more favorable attentions; a leave-taking is not without longing.
Reference  ·  Nerve damage to upper-mid spinal cord,  tremors, mood swings, personality shifts, lethargy & fatigue

A puerile imp always possessed the silver only when Lyra, not @Mahler, was near;
pastime mischeif meant to enrage, never to ever endear;
for she delighted in the ire of Kerberos' second as she flit from her! so when the earth shuddered by behemoth's rousement so too did Andraste shiver away from the dark lady’s reaching and thus takes a faltering flight from her. She would rather be struck down once more than cower in the cavern she'd awoken in, been kept to; such evasion so early in the hours. Only when the sun limned the Moonspire with morn did she exhume herself of ivy drapery from which she’d glamour’d beneath.

The tremoring from then was now her own; at the time, it hadn’t quite yet registered how nearly the three sisters blind had cut the thread of her life, so within her words had the queen drew her.

But! she had ghosted from Hydra's spiteful sister once more  (the serpent having sought her upon a different route entirely!)  and that in itself begged for celebration of some sort; even the meagerest of them. The next murmur of the earth presently found the willow-wisp on ambiguous pursuit; ears pressed forward  (a rare thing!)  to listen as she sought the last peals of tindoio before harvest swept in with its shameless sunsetting. ...And perhaps they had sought a world away from the one that hummed now to its roots.

Dim as it was, the forested foothills glowed; leaves already gilded were pressed to further dryness underpaw as the silver passed by black roots mottled with burnished, coppered mosses. The crisped spice of pine sap rushed into her lungs to brimming — it still was not enough. Even as she knew she must make herself tame under Lyra’s tending eventually, nothing would ever be enough again; and she would savor furtively the remainder of the gargoyle’s being here.

Otherwise—
Andraste continued her quiet quest with a gentled tread; eventually come to lie heavy-lashed within some moss-laden alcove within the deep dawn’s glow of harvest. 

too long he had lingered in the majesty of moonspear and its queen; mahler knew he must swiftly leave. the tremouring had not abated, and his primordial self was all but driven mad by the continued chaos of his world. longingly he looked toward diaspora, even as he turned his back upon it to melt deeper into the forest of hydra's dominion.
he paid his keep, and perhaps that of aurëwen, with a brace of rabbits run terrified into his jaws after a split oak sundered their home. having cached them, the gargoyle glanced 'round the weald, seeking the dove where he had last seen her. a frown graced his countenance; aurëwen's wanderlust had driven her out of bed again, and with a sigh mahler set off to find the woman and bid her goodbye.
in a mossy grove he found her, long-limbed, the dire tattoo upon her spine — for a long moment mahler stood amid the shadows and drank in the silken sight of the fey aurëwen and her wild creature.

Grimm, regarding Perrault’s vision;
in the long lull of his lingering, her repose has only deepened. Perhaps it is the scent of his soul  (settling into her like molten gold poured into crucible)  that is the reason for the shift through her figure; makes her silver arms reach through slumber and presses a favoring arc into her marked spine; makes the gaunt hips strain, shy and seeking as she stretches; makes her veil the other cheek upon the mosses, breath faint and unsettled; so Andraste nestles into the earth, hushed, heady.

Awaiting, unknowing; alone entire, in this alcove that was a creaking cradle; amber, cathedral. Woven vaulting of autumnal antechamber; leaves sifted, burnished by the gilded stained glass of morning.

When first the priest had arrived, he had summoned her reawakening with the whisper of his syllabary upon pale lips. What, then, keeps her from rousing, now?  Perhaps not all of her knows he is here, where the deep honey of harvest found the sleeping and the shrouded. Unending and darkened, this gold; the ebb of her heart faltering.

Within languor there are songbird sighs; underlain with sensuality which the silver again was ignorant to. The choirlord wished not to refigure her; and yet before him the ruined and ne’er-lovely reposer crooned in slumber to the wildling whispers that shivered within his soul-chords. Orphic; her throat, timorous, tempting, strummed itself along lichens; some softened murmur from shorn lips, misted, and it might have been his name, should the musiker thread nearer.

Even restful, Mahler still unravels her by thought alone. He must see, must know— lashes aquiver— her bewitcher, yes—

andraste; remade.
she seemed enthralled with her own inner musings; he could not resist essaying to her side, finding the velvet arch of one ear with his lips. "i must go home," and here his heart ached with a feeling he did not know he possessed. something somnolent and not at all docile, rising with a harsh jut to steal breath from his very lungs.
with hydra, with lyra, with moonspear, would the dove be safe. but andraste knew no fetters, not even those of safety. no soul could hope to keep her if it was not within her spirit to remain. eyes closed; he traced down her scarwrought cheek with his heavy muzzle.
she had restored him, unmade him. the keening of his newly uncovered spirit was for her.
a breeze flickered through the new-hued leaves — it descended to ply them both with cool fingers of air.
diaspora was home, was where his kill-brother had been interred for the never-ending sleep, where he had whelped this season's children.
could he not find part of the same in the bosom of the wandering andraste? mahler marvelled in quietude, her fragrance wreathed around the both of them with an intensity that brought him to mind of the stone plinth and her slender jaws wide-parted upon the edge of a cry.

“Ja,”
—having heard this bit of his language previously, she has assumed that bit is rooted in the affirmative; the acknowledging, at the very least;
and it's all she might murmur; a softened wisp that would go unheard, had not her lips been hummingbird to the ambrosia of his kiss; shorn lips that winged to the dark corner of his own. Though her lashes linger heavy upon desecrated cheek, and though he touches this, too, he would know the hushed hitch within her naked throat for her myriad waking.

Her heart shudders, staggers; stops; for there is nothing like these breathless and aching moments; nothing like her bewitcher’s stone mouth at her ear, her cheek; nothing more shepherding, more guiding; nothing more knowable that they remained to chart themselves to another even as he meant now to depart of her. Time and time again, they were both found and fond. Time and time again; this deep and golden moment within that untread hall, quivering upon that threshold. He was not simply body to her.

How far has her evinyatar come, to reach to her through her own labyrinthine mists of that previous dawn, and this? How far has he gone from his people, to caress her so? She loathes him for this, and—

The stricken is unafraid, and quails not. Into his ironwrought embrace had all her tears and hesitant hopes went; and so too had the musiker of her. They made it theirs, as they had in the last dawn and
in the waters; their waters;
—the strain returned now to rawboned hips, curvaceous only when canted with wanting; and Andraste means to veil that pervasive scent of herself from him; feathers the tail betwixt intermittent and quavering thighs in a thin veil of modesty. So quail she does, then; awaiting and entreating; fearing, longing now to melt upon the anvil and else he offers her.

Marred lips part; flushed; ardent, speechless;
a trembling kiss to the hammer-laden muzzle for his own scars; wishes to hold them all as if they were fortunes; and so kisses them for the uprising that he has settled upon her faded shores.

Andraste croons to the wars of him,
faerie and all.

ever-responsive, ever-pensive, ever-fey; her step is a gliding dance and it was mahler she invited into the heart of it. his mothertongue upon her lips; it brought a smile to the scarred solemnity of his watchful features. twinning cadences — the gargoyle was altogether unsurprised to find that he ached at the thought of departure.
but even as the dream of a haven grew in andraste's heart, diaspora glowed in his own heart. the tremours underfoot went on and on and on; he could not conceive now of escaping them. they were country-wide, from all that he knew. rootless andraste; she understood that he could not now cast off the pulsing artery of connection betwixt his soul and the great mountains.
mahler purled a response against the proud arch of her neck, but the stamp of sunlight lacing her spine in its grim tracery swiftly quelled whatever uprising might have begun in his heartbeat, his blood. there was no desire to harm andraste; even in the taking she might be more woefully injured, new scabbing torn aside to smear his undercarriage in crimson as he gathered her into the jut of himself.
and so ruefully the gargyole reined back the tension of his figure and merely kissed the dove, her fairy-ring lips plundering his spirit and replacing it with an airy emptiness that tasted of grapewine and the summer barely left behind. not his; nor belonging to anyone save for herself.
"i vill come back," mahler breathed hopelessly, for always would andraste come secondly to diaspora while hiis kill-brother's vision lived. she accepted this, as he accepted her wanderlust and the bitter taste of the days to come, in which he left her and returned to his beloved spires, his affection for takiyok.

Rejuvenation in his chords; resignation in his kiss;
and as he sighed and spoke into her lips Andraste could only simmer, seethe.  “So,”  desecrated features softened with sulking,   “you will torment me while I wait?”  Fanged at his dark chin, aquiver. Had he not been heralded here to tend to her? Was he not here to treat her turmoil? She let this aching cleave waxen thighs so that he might now scent her; tail crescenting, unveiling. Would he only watch her writhe with this wanting? ... Then, she would devour him as the earth would never;
and it was with an impish insolence that Andraste unfurled; rising to press herself like pale songnote into the musiker, murmuring for him to lie with her;
and though it was lost upon the marred mouth, there was a simper that alit within the slumberly halfsight.

She would not coerce his person into such taking;
yet her lips part, leaden with the covetous requests she could plead by him — and is stilled by the preything spirit that diminishes  (for now)  upon ruined features as she looks upon his own and his figure.

Instead:
"Teach me your tongue,”  the silver muses, unsettled, pale belly to the heather ribs; paler arms wended about the breadth of mauve shoulders. The rigidity of hewn male beneath her is intoxicating, however; she wants to bed within the pillared hold of him and the stricken so very nearly falters; command does not suit her. Refashioned to hollowness and she yearns to feel hallowed!
Though breathless that she becomes:   “Tell me what you wish me to say,”  foolish, starlit, shying from the lavender of him. The words feel as if they might drip down her throat before given voice,   “and I would say I will ... miss you.”  Stilted lull; half-exhumed, strangeling heart aflutter; feather-thin breast to his.   “Much.”

Sights return — finally — to that of the composer beneath her. He is the smelter of the brand upon her back and yet her own refigured soul sings and anguishes for his all the same. 
(Having felled herself into her own ensnarement or no.)

mahler was not a creature of many wants, his desires simple: organization, routine, loyalty. andraste fit none of these things, and so his need for her had become
confusing, its facets many-tiered and casting light across all of his previous thoughts of who it was existed beneath his name.
temptation — teasing. he scarcely felt that he could resist her upon the eve of their parting, but surely he must, for while she invited him into the sanctum that had burned his breath hot on her nape before, andraste was injured, delicate, inane to think that their coupling would bring much more with it besides a corporeal agony.
soon the moonbeam left off it, and mahler sheepishly descended to the earth with her, a pleasurable sensation to have the yielding angularity of andraste against him again, wended into her arms, through and through with her scent — !
”sie wissen, was sie tun,” mahler chided in a roughened tone, settling himself apart somewhat from her teasing whispers that his resolve would not so quickly weaken.
takiyok’s visage sprang to his mind; he did not dispel it, merely considered the slow turn of the proud woman’s glare through his inner eye until her countenance had faded. there were far more practical reasons to choose the winterwhite, for in his own manner he did indeed love the fierce she-wolf. it would be different with her than now, but perhaps that was best; neither of them sinking into the morass of one another.
still ... stigmata’s dream beckoned.
”ich werde dich sehr vermissen,” the gargoyle whispered down into the upreaching lips of the nightingale. ”that is how you say, ‘i vill miss u very much.’”

Admonishment!
and she might never know the meaning beneath them as he is of her. She longs to know what he means, what questions he asks of her; what small things he speaks in the seclusion of himself. But his chords were rough-hewn, and she too is adamant in her endeavor, and, for now, this is all that matters; not the fracturing of the world, nor her being affrighted for him, not yet, not yet— Andraste shifts closer, all elfin simpers to touch her lips to that dusked nose with some half-innocence. It is all she can do to suppress the private lilt that swells within the hold of marred lips.

The silver lingers as such, until she tasted his foreign instruction.
“Ich ...” she intones, delicately, haltingly; halfsight alighting upon that dark mouth that is begging to be bitten. “Ich werde ...”  almost!— “Ich werde dich sehr.”  Perched over Mahler’s hidden heart with such enquirement, such insistence! Ignorant to this moment! Had she the faintest inkling that which she has uttered, she might have quailed entirely.
And perhaps not.
“Ich werde dich ... sehr verm- vermisten.”
And perhaps still more favorable would any other but she would be; any she-wolf who was not the somnolent ophelia draped upon the anvil that was the General; any soul who would better court his favor; any mother who had not had the sorrows struck from their soul; any she-wolf who had not thusly made herself irrevocably undesirable; any Diasporan would have more significance in his militant life, and ...
she finally presses lips to stoneflower; correction:  “Vermissen.”

Ever southern did her enquiring kisses tread, thereafter; 
inaugurating with  Ich werde dich  and soft swan songs of the words he proffered to her.  I will miss your eyes, and—  “Ich werde dich Sti.. Stimme vermissen,”  she had whispered to the pale bit of throat; presently, now at his sternum, and the scars there, the stricken supposes how much she might be mistaking his mothertongue. Still: Andraste listens through the echoing of deep dawn for the pulsating of his own soul; for the sound of his blood through the hallways of his body. For the muscular thrumming of interwoven arteries, centermost: a tender touch to each wound of the world.

All of this, she traversed with gentle mouthings and infuriatingly tender kisses; 
the deep line of musculature that bound sternum to stomach; laving, featherlight upon the inked lock of hipbone; and so her confessions went a-murmur. Should Mahler dare look, there be the stormcloak; weaving upon the porcelain musculature. He would know her studious and soulful eyes, unveiled from dark cusp of lashes; a wondering hesitance, too. For if he would not gather her to him—

That fragrence he hummed so ardently for was now rather out of reach. But she would only go further if the musiker wished her musings there.

how alive he felt within andraste's embrace; too much to know she would leave her children; too much to remember dragomir's pained face. guilt lanced through him, but the upturn of her mouth was sweet wine, and he glut himself upon it. mahler had never before been a hedonist — he was an austere being, but the pleasure that unfurled within him to hear his native words upon her scarred lips was pure, a sharpened bolt of gold to limn his ears.
"very good," the gargoyle rumbled, gathering her closer. so swiftly the moment must end. and yes, want her he did, but it would be utter selfishness in the taking. andraste fell to kissing him again; he lingered in the half-light between longing for diaspora and longing for her.
love — could he put the edge of that word to this?
and did it matter?
the sylph made of him an idol, and he stood perched upon the pedestal she had given him, his old arrogance surging forth. he was worthy, then, in ways the other had not been, and it had naught to do with the sensations he had wrought upon her yielding self. perhaps she saw in him the things that mahler himself could not always discern.
with that came a great power that he had willfully given over into her velveteen embrace, her misted eyes glistening ever toward him, urging that he spring out of his skin and into her own —!
she was spurring him on with the gentle press of her mouth; the sinew of him melted beneath the warm of it, his bones melting to ivory with the heat she engendered; spellwork,
witchcraft, this.
and he a general no longer, a mere supplicant that at last surrendered to her with a knowing glint in lilac stare and an invitation that andraste wield him in whater way she wished.

She had never taken a male in this manner;
had only ever heard of it when she had been a blind and beguiling little whelp; only ever having canted her head, dovelike, at the beauties that had laughed themselves into silence; shushed for speaking with such suggestions around the heiress apparent.

Andraste still does not know much;
she does not know what this would feel like for either of them— but! She knows, fleetingly, that the ache in her loins and between them does not matter; knows is if she lost herself in those amethyst facets any longer, she would lose whatever gall she had voyaged down the dark make of him with. She knows that he stole the breath from her; quivering low from the lungs and into that hip. Yet she knows, entirely, how she wishes to make him feel. 

All else that would be needed was the notes of Mahler that she must she must she must hear; to vex the insatiability within him to a maddening height.

Inexperienced; hesitance, at first;
and then her dulcet groan gnawed from flank and into the first of his heavy thigh. It was here that Andraste laved deeply, nipped ponderously; fangs a soft scythe, shearing through the heather from thigh, to knee; behind it; churring with longing at the anchored loin she found there;
and when this first act came to its end, intermission presented itself in the mouthing at cullions with a trembling resilience;
and the third act was repetition, repetition, surely; more ravenous, shivering; more a glimpse behind the curtain that she might be unable to restrain herself, so early.

However! she must, she must, for him;
here, then, she returned to them; ignored them, all in favor of finally, finally mouthing with shorn lips so featherlight upon the crown of him.  “And what—”  an imprecise, half-innocent kiss  “—do you call this?”

Then, without waiting for an answer to her saccharine enquiry, Andraste promptly devoured him, all as he deserved.

inexperience; mahler fair felt himself fade into the twilit place amid life and death as she commanded the seat of all that had defined him in youth. a rare gasp rung out from dark maw; a marvel, seething with a drumbeat sensation in all parts of him, cardinal points trembling as he committed himself in full trust to andraste and her devious ministrations.
he could scarce find his breath, muscles tightening like ropes upon a ship in storm — mahler was buffeted and drawn forward, shuddering upon its very edge. no thoughts found their way into searing brainpan, nor words upon a tongue gone mute with pleasure. witchcraft, spellwork, some magick altogether unknown and unheard of.
the long ache, which is eternal, holding one shaking as like mercury the condition spreads through the broken-glass shards of a peak everlasting; he lost all of himself and forgot his devotion to impassivity as a cry writ itself upon the heavens and at last he quaked beneath her weakly, lilac eyes gone hazed and limbs heavy with the marvel of it all.

happy 800th my frisky bbyg ♡ congrats Eb lmaoo

He made a glutton of her;
for it was not the taste of him that the stricken took him further, flaringly into her throat; it was the notes of which were wrested from the foyers of the masonry of his heather breast. That gasp!— In a moment of weakening her thin hips canted into moss, into loam, as she sought what she had imprisoned between shorn lips; from which an answering lament departed, however muted; the sex of her cinching about nothing as her throat cinched about his gleid. As Mahler reached the finale of his symphony the stricken laved deeply; easing him from her only when he had went lax upon her tongue. Almost demurely, she let her ivory maw alight upon his thigh, as before, and began to croon at the quivering she found there, before she brought her eyes up and up and—
—she turns to stone, perchance, as he melted. Spellbound;
her ruined loveliness shifted to such inscrutable impassivity that had, for now, left of his person.

For now.

Undone; muted still;
Andraste rose, fathomless, and promptly sat her sex back upon upon the weariness of him. Breathed long and lilting and low, so low, as she cradled herself there; waxen hips so tremulous. “I’ve half ze mind,”  faux listless rumination,  “to let you return this way.”  Snaring tissued lips between frostfangs, to smother all other betrayal: “But, perhaps you m-might favor that—”  a tender, vulnerable hiss sifting from the taste of him, of the utter depravity he drew of her,  “—giving tell to all of wh-whose cunt did this to you.”  She cannot command! but she must, she must, for she has seen those misted amethysts and covets them; hoards the stygian framework of his figure; has seen the fractured frieze of his face and before she is awares she herself fragments.

Writhing upon his froth; eyes gauzy; and here her commands meld into pleas; dual: "S-stand—"  the sight of his percieved submission only entreating her to rut that much more ravishedly against him. She must rise and yet could only remain anchored, for now for now for now—

<3

fire and flame and ice; the lick of silk upon stone, she, gilding him again, marking him again with an uttering groan arching from his throat and light-laced slick between them. rise, she commanded, and her warrior grew terrible, impassioned by the glut of andraste's own need, her interminable ravening.
never, never — he had not been had now, a pinnacle upon which perched a mourning dove; he rolled within her upon the charnel earth and brought them both together in a single clash that spiraled out, feathered out, clutched them both in a vicious and desperate outflung sense.
each compelled; commanded; he feasted upon the taut lines of andraste; she tensed and yielded beneath the fervency of his ordered worship, and he found himself gasping for purchase through the waves of her.
selkie, elf, witch; wormwood; tongue gone bitter to remember it in times to come.

unsleepy sunday post #2 smh

Much later would they languish and be lain together;
but as of present, she had wilted to wax; weak;
marveling with a chordless moan as he had marveled at the mouth it means to falter from. The stricken aches to let thinned hips swell and fall within the lock of his own—! but all she is enabled to do is to hold herself poised beneath her bewitcher, when her very figure wishes to writhe for him as he claims and claims and claims her
and her shorn cheek is pressed now into loam and leaves and Andraste is as helpless and as hopeless as she had only made him to be moments ago and
she cannot swear, cannot speak his name cannot, shiver within his arms in the manner she wishes to plea to; cannot sound all that he has wrought upon her but can only let her galvanized golem to spread her and see her ruined, ravished features as he holds those gaunt hips up for only himself—!
and the druid is aching aching aching for the coming of it all, of him within her and herself upon him and she arcs, breathless beneath him, pleading how she does not want her release yet but all incoherent desires upon her tongue are wrenched from her as he conducts his own melody from her very throat; and by his measure she finally heaves her quivering hips into his own with simmering and strained sighs;
and by his own order vents herself upon him— and again! unbidden—

Yes; later would they lie and listen together;
but as of present he utterly unravels her.

when they parted, mahler was bereft, empty, hollow in all ways; he had given her the last of himself and came away with nothing but the remembered clasp of her body. teeth against her nape, then lips against cheek; he gathered her close to breathe in the scent of her, the loam-tendrils, the honeysuckle, wild vanilla; all the things he had come to attribute to the sylph.
they lay to listen.
diaspora beckoned.
mahler whispered a gentle rasp of mother-tongue to andraste now
— ich werde zu dir zurückkehren —
diaspora called.
upon the horizon at length he turned back to look upon moonspear, pierced by his recollections, but he must carry now the echo of their words away to the mountain where his blood burned.