Deepwood Weald fṇðṇ

13th October. @Vanity!

Lune, abloom; a summons.
Her eyes are numbed. She is drawn to eves like this; made to make merry with specters; to unravel that tarnished weave; to wonder as their sagas met out like muted actors forsaken by theatre they so cherished. Their shadows; the thralls of them; this night. Pages all now vying to be written; parchment to be put into her mind; the scratch of script that truth too often limns with myth. She aches for that deep and delicate dawn; promises pressed to her lashes, her lips. When?— O! that she would take flight from these mists to his!

Bewitcher is what he be;
and for two morns and an hour he had been hers. Hers — the lady of the Moonspire had yet to be awares of the wishes of her Court ... and the stricken must procure to them notwithstanding her own yearning.

Tormentor!

She aches and aches and aches; her spirit longing and lamenting for that which had been lain before her; beleaguered with a suffering, another's sacrifice; this primidorial ache that she cannot be near. Amethyst eyes an age-old blight to her ardent and refigured heart. Andraste damns him; forbids herself from its intonations; swears away the syllabary of the blest omen that is his name.

When it was decided, she must give tell to Hydra within the next few morrows.