Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ envinyatar (mtr.)

Cradled in the dark heather of her bewitcher;
lulled by the berceuse that is fashioned by the musiker’s brusqueness; his enquiry a lyric. Andraste knows that he will take the breath from her tender lungs should their eyes again meet; though they had rested within the others’ bones, did the golem now fear even her shade did not follow? Would he not behold gospel for the melody of his voice? Some manner of faith strummed tender from the melting wax of her throat— breath sifting past that heavy thigh and now him, his breadth anchored beneath her as on that day— and before her sussation shifts into a gentled warble of ache she answers, duskily:  “Poppies.” 

He lurks within her veins;
so unseeing and so unbidden has he made her that her tongue laves at his proffered rib with the most delicate of presses; and her mem’ry instead now brings the truth of her hushed, strained word:
“She did — eventually,”  for though her fang now a softened scythe at that lock of hip, her cloudthick eyes told no fable; not even for longing. No — Lyra had fed her, though she had thrashed and wailed as if rebirthing; had to have it coaxed past her teeth by Kerberos’ second; was that her voice, now? and at this Andraste snarled—
—such unuintimidation! but with a laborious heave of the pale rigging of her throat, her eyes then arrow’d towards the limestone mouth, a-glimmer with whimsical ferocity.

Shorn cheek rested upon that hip, now; nearly territorial, as the fragment of the Fade remains to shear into her refigured soul. Perhaps it might have been delirium  (or delicious devotion?)  but all the same she draws her tongue again along his hip, if only to vex his person just a tad—
the eye that still sees now threads back to that mauve masque. She is tender and teasing and tormented but there still is the true turmoil of her figure that needs tending to:  “What would you use on me, pray tell?”

Remedies of the herbal sort, she alludes, of course!
but the willow-imp in her churrs with a wicked bit of delight; peers at the golem from behind her heart that thrills from the threading of its claws; makes itself evident in the faintest simper of all, as if nigh but phantom had kissed the corner of ivory lips.

Each word is inquisitive of his profession; private, even as anguish still prowls beneath that waxen musculature; tremoring, the red weaving writhing. All she has spoken with such quietude; but breaths leave her with sifting, subtle hisses; the infuriating dimpling at her cheek wavering as once-lovely features are tempted to surrender to mute malady.