Northstar Vale and we weren't even married (dmn?)

lie before your undómiel​.

a phrase that'd kept kalika awake for the bulk of the night. it'd awakened a new curiousity about their leader, a need to know the secrets she hid.

the siren wandered through the territory, chirping for andraste's attention.

this is short because my mind? no.

You're like a dream, Ananke –
never to be disturbed.

But here she is, still unbridled, still unstoppered. Aquiver through midnight and mornlight with the most potent of pleasures  –  of power  –  brimming like a basilisk in the gut of a vessel that has only ever been virginal to such softlings as she, with a vestal flush that comes with the first of magesterial, primeval impositions. She, who had held the jailbird's skull with her fangs and had marked her with the stain of her status; who had seen the selkie from her seat up on high; the one that now she strode with severity for, chittering creature gurgles in the back of arid throat.

It is a thing of utter glory;
not a lustful reaching for the corpreal satisfaction that only her warlord can wreak of her   ( Melkor, Melkor, mine, yes mine, I make melitse make those sounds, they are mine — )   rather, it is that which would only further supplement her malnourished, guilted ego to climes gilded and gleaming. It is a thing that is long overdue  —  “Your preparations for ze quest go smoothly, Fëafelmë?”  —  and this moon she is not sweethearted and unassuming but instead preying, hoarding; mesmerized, marveling with a tang of innocence that only heightens Andraste's first-time high.

Whether it is cock or cunt between the legs of her Courtiers matters not: halfsights hunger for that slip, that fault in the siren's bearing that would give her every godless, gluttonous, gnome-proclaimed goddess' right to push one's face into loam as cat to canary and foster her long-starved selfdom.

andraste's voice came as a pleasant surprise, breaking the near silence that'd once surrounded them. it was sweet, but demanding; not unlike the tone taken with the plaything some nights ago. kalika feigned a smile, her tail dropping to half-mast. 

our nymphet moved to settle, dropping her weight onto one hip nestled against the ground. good, she replied. a simple reply, purposefully neglectful of the leader's proper title.

snout to thigh, pluming the delicate whisps of fur, she continued, i saw you with the ruby-eyed girl. kalika aimed to steal a glimpse of andraste's gaze. what happened?

Dismissal; disrespect.

Kalika would look back into the face of Faerie and see a smile that was too full of pearlsome teeth; a sanctimonious half-snarl beneath rosé, flaring nose and eyes heavy-lashed and star-bright; red-hewn lips melted to porcelain, easing into the marble finality of a simper that ensured what she had heard as the siren sung her song. And so there came an answer  –  one of a female unversed with being in the arresting arms of authority and yet, regardless of ragged breaths, of eyes that wavered against such a foreign host within, still attempted to drudge up an answer worthy of reckoning:  “Only a necessary evil. I impressed upon her that I, Undómiel, am not of weak nature.”  Simper unfurled again to skullgrin under crowsfoot, cunning eyes; inexperienced amidst this singular element.

Still, still; shorn brow writ with hazy, bemused apology:  “I fear that I have forgotten to remind you of such. Forgive me,”  sneering unseelie, now,  “you are still so new, of course. So ... benighted.”  Unbalanced, she;
still riding the magicks and reeking of it; her soul arching, shivering out its ruff. Open-mouthed; soft sighs of hindsight with winged brows imploring the waterlily:  “Perchance it would be best to relieve you of your charged quest, would it not?”

the sylph was as a fawn, fresh from its mother's womb; afraid of the world and what it might do, baring its defenses without knowing how to use them. kalika had played advisor long enough to know when, and how, to call a bluff.

so she allowed andraste to present her display, fighting back the urge to applause at its end. did that feel good? she mused, eyes drifting down toward the ground between them, it did, didn't it?

would kalika be wrong to continue with her dismissal? this clan was not her own, their women all commoners. she would not scold herself for refusing to submit before an unworthy leader. but to lead beside her..

dismiss me, if you so please. the siren shifted her wait, settling to lie down. were this a proper matriarch, she might have rolled over to show the tender skin lining her belly. in this scenario, however, that was a level of respect that still had to be earned.

she looked at up andraste then, continuing to speak, i can teach you how to do it the right way. to not be so.. shaken.

lowkey mood tbch

It did not feel as paltry a thing as good;
it felt divine. It devoured her delighted her; only gave her more and more and more and more and more and so when the waterlily descended to belly but did not show it the feverish fairylight glut the sight of it, properly set to slather 'bout ruined mouth and wreathe the face into Medusian frieze. The only thing that stopped her from screaming sobbing into neck with salt kniving down desecrated features  submit to me!  whispering whimpering wobbly  please.  were the words that instead halted whatever harrowing advance she had begun to administer her way and then earned the naiad another breed of insulted shriek entirely:

“I am not shaken. I do not need to be shown.”

She was an impling creature incensed by the impervious suggestion that this lótë so proferred; sent strutting with the stumbly unsurety of the situation and what knowledge had been so presented to her. She shivers, fawn; lambthing laden with far too much first-wool. Held still by Fëafelmë's offer and her own indignance, her own wretched infantilism. Organization, routine; the diligence of structure, all that did not retain an inkling within that wistful, tender soul  —  unfettered power envelopes that chasm of never-was-there, makes the fée bare the whites of her eyes and fangs and gives vigorous shakes of her skull. Grasping reaching clawing for a control that she does not have. She had been born into inheritance, yes  –  but the tempering had not been a learned thing.

She never had.

Her flanks wither and wind; sails streaked with the rainslick exertion of indecision. The figurehead of Andraste's will of dominion still thrusts itself against the rigidty of her bones; straining. But  —  a sobering speck of sun, peeking through the ravening storm, if only but for a moment.

Her lower, cut lip wobbles, stupidly. Helplessly; self-hatingly.

and yet, even as she denied such assertions, andraste trembled with angst.

kalika watched through squinted eyes as the display approached its close. was that it, then? did their leader have nothing more to show? judgement rotted, leaving only pity. 

the siren rose onto her paws once more, a direct challenge of authority. prove it. although stiff with muscles braced, her tail was tucked tightly between pale thighs as if to say, 

i do not want your rank. i want to help you keep it.

the siren was uninterested in leading at the forefront. her true interest was in advising, whispering in undómiel's ear. it was safer, a more secure position.

make me submit, kalika continued, as you would a true insubordinate.

Feel free to ignore me. I just want Olo to see.

 

He scented them, the pair, both colored in pale hues of storm and snow. Even still, Andraste frame was marred by the storm's rage. There, he could see them now, though remained in the distance far and did not approach. There was a seriousness amongst them, their words heard through perked ears. He crept low to be unnoticed, something he had practiced time and time again between an abusive family to an abusive matriarchy. 

Andraste had a means to be a guide to her followers, 'a vessel for the words of her followers to be heard' she had spoken. Aiolos had wondered how long her reign may last until someone more dominant and aggressive came to the Vale. Someone had - Kalika. But she did not theaten her position, only to advise, to teach. Aiolos was intrigued, enlightened and he laid down and smiled.

tiny bitey posts begin: now. riprip

Condoling, she thinks; communactive that was to be no such usurpation ... though Andraste is no less burdened by errant worries both oldworn and newborn here and now. Instruction  —  set into the classic frieze-figure of selkie, all calmed and comandeering with tail feathered to belly. Mentor's words, though the naiad could have very well helmed the fée's mistcourt if she so wished. But it was not to be, and so Andraste instead  (once the shivers have mostly gone)  sets her path on one that will have her prowling stilted; the brandishing of her plume forgotten as she nears the Fëafelmë in a half-crescent way, wavering;

She starts, rawboned figure lurching one way but then—!
it is another direction that she feints; slavering snarling with exertion, with effort as she rears and rocks upon spindly hinds in that she might gnaw deep earlobe, ruff, pinching the base of skull, leonine. Makes the cruel pointedness of her joints to batter against Kalika's greyling form.

In the chance that she has snared the siren to her  (still cautioned enough to leave skin unbroken)  the stricken would begin to  (attempt to)  wrest the larger of them to loam.

the display was allowed, kalika buckling to give andraste a new perspective. she knelt down into a quasi-play bow, wincing as teeth grazed against her scruff. harder, she called back, bring blood. while awaiting her wounds, the siren shifted her hips downward, bending her hindlegs to shorten their length. push me over, onto my back. 

lmao same.

Inexperience, all;
they might be  (presumably)  alone for this skirmish, but her own predicament still sets a balefire blush to pale swan's neck and hunkers down within gaunt cheeks; eats up her ears and sloughs through her stomach like something inflamed and ill-made. Her fangs have found the hunchback's ruff, and though she is instructed to bring blood Andraste cannot help but gnaw and nip sharp, as if the strength in her jaws is reduced by the initial distraction of pushing her onto her back;
breast weighs itself now upon Fëafelmë's shoulders with spindly arms wended 'round the crestborn, mouth full of nape. Her own spine, set aflame; without any other idea of how to act in the moment, the may queen falls back upon the bleary mem'ry of her brother and she, mere whelps tussling and triumphing over another;
so rabbitlike, her hinds  (the most sinewy things that are a part of her skinny self)  flurry out and Undómiel kicks for the ribs, kicks for the hips, knees, belly, anything; kicks and kicks hard, hard enough to hope she might wind her mentor—
(clutching naiad now as arctic foxfur clutches to a dignified neck)
—kicks with such vehemence that she carries herself entirely heels-over-head-over-Kalika, windmilling and wheezing as she kisses the earth with a thump of red crown.

Dignity demolished, the dazed fée can only claw her way back to the siren, stumbling; ridicuously hoping that her own fall had sundered them both.

andraste's grip never did tighten. instead, she tried a different maneuver that might have worked, were she of a more substantial size. they were left seperated, one confused woman opposite the other. this is not a fight, kalika spat, so stop treating it like one.

you are easy to overpower. do not approach from the front, but from my blindspot. siren turned her head to face away from andraste, take my scruff, and this time, do not be so timid. to hesitate is to be weak, and a true leader is not weak. 

while a preference for peace and general quietude was fine for a subordinate, kalika knew that this quality in a leader made for a vulnerable pack. still facing away, she continued, and when you have your grip, keep your legs on the ground. use your weight to force me onto my back.

Fighting has been all I have ever known!
is what she wanted to sputter with the indignant and self-righteous, flustered fury of an hieress who has never had more than a smattering of skirmishes within her entire life thus far. But lips remained pinched, jut jaw wound shut; pink nostrils aflare and features searing bloodbright beneath fine fur. Everywhere within her felt alight, abashed, affronted; ears tucked themselves away into snowdrift mane, and though listen she did, it took absolutely everything to not let her face crinkle into something petulant and bellyaching, to not stomp all whelpish as Kalika turned her back; plume kinking, fussed and lioncubbed;
wants to gripe of What weight? Look at me! and how she has never heard of blindspots even though the rest of what the siren sings is sung true. Nevermind—!

This time, when she rushes Fëafelmë, it is with the consideration of what has been suggested: as before, she rocks her center into her hinds, but as she lurches upon the naiad it is to let her fangs shear  (pinking, irontongue)  through ruffhide and into flesh. Arms again clutching for purchase, wrenching herself into the anchor that's been made of her hindpaws whose claws she blunts into thaw underfoot;
needly teeth fishlining into siren, snaring, snarling and hoping to upset her well this time.

the wound was deep enough to draw blood, but shallow so as to not damage muscle. a well-performed attack, worthy of a yelp and buckle as kalika reared onto her own hind legs. andraste did as told, forcing her weight onto her subordinate's chest and pushing them both onto the ground.

from this position, the siren could look up at undómiel to provide the next set of instructions. here, she commanded between breaths, put one paw on my chest and lean into it. she would wait a moment before continuing, aim for my face. you want to hold onto my mouth so that i cannot retaliate.

Preying, again;
some seasonswell, some tug; some spiced tang of power and the sight of another strewn beneath her has a wretched simper winking at the ruined edges of lips.  “You are right, eälótë,”  the fairylight muses, studies the selkie’s features with a faraway cant of her head that is not unlike that of Astynome’s trial beneath the willows and looking thereafter to the siren’s seat far above. Glamour brewing within loins, further, for the revelence in such displays that she had never been prone to or partaken in; breathing so soft and sifting  (searing the grecian snout)  that she might not be at all. Lilting tones fallen into a dusked timbre—  “it does feel good.”

In a heartbeat, her teeth blunt ‘round the greyling muzzle, creature-churring as before as before as before; pressing paw to breast and leaning as told; staring with silvered halfsights into shore’s sapphire.

kalika drew a smile through andraste's bite, the ends of her mouth curling where the center could not. her hindleg pulled as far up undómiel's chest as was plausible, beginning a slow descent back toward her tail. with her forepaw, she moved to brush against the whisps of her superior's jaw, hopefully persuading her release.

She had let the male who had let her down lie beneath her;
and she now wanted only the one who had not;
wished for him to unravel her whilst she looms over him.

For him to taunt her; for her to set him atremble. Dark lashes come together; melitse's name was in her mouth and with some garbled, near-timid murmuring moan for him drawn by Fëafelmë's massage the fée holds the velvet of the siren a moment longer; snout wrinkling half-heartedly at the clattering of claws catching themselves along moon-jaw ... but she acquiesces, eventually;
“You will be good for me,”  Undómiel proclaims, myriad meaning and impling mischief; blindbride of her season that she was not yet incensed by.  “Though I take my leave, know that I am indebted to your services.”

Heavy-lashed halfsights;
offers no reprieve that she might have given, were she less a loving being and more lusting ... but Andraste is in love, is in a mimicry of season limned with power, too much too much: she strides from the scheming sea-serpent with roused reachings; soon to reek of her own desire at the last-year reminiscence of her warlord's languid torments.

Onto the next.