The Sunspire ground blizzard

When she had first glimpsed the yearlings of her Court romping about the snows with unrivaled glee, there was no other thing that she wished to indulge herself in  (a little lie, in itself)  than to have their infectious delight whisk her own spirit into such innocent rapture ... but within the lands of the vale, Andraste was Undómiel, and therein was the maintenance of much dignity. So, under the  (truthful!)  pretenses of scavenging for any scraps that she might tote on the return, the fée flit from the wealds which had rooted her very soul for how-ever, now;
and only when she removed herself fully from the eyes of curious and cautious courtlings did the stricken let herself soar throw frost in a manner that a cackling raven had only ever been presented with, once upon a time.

Eventually, the murmurings of a vole had given her reason to stumble; reason to think amidst the boreal bumblings that had cloistered themselves within her errant, whelp-spun mind —
— and no sooner had she leapt without a single thought had she thusly become apprehended by her own trickster belly.

Again.

Bum-up to sky! No amount of flurry-footing over her own shadow would be enough for her to save herself. Whimpers, muted; vole, uncaught; dignity, mere tatters.