Northstar Vale das gericht

andraste was questing, purling, her pursuit determined, tinged in desperation. mahler did not understand why she approached him so, why the delicate frame of her had wended into his embrace, why the dove sought the corporeal from the choking dust of what he had admitted only moments prior.
the taste of salt upon her lips; the shadowpriest's mouth roved over one closed eyelid and then another, a feral sound beginning in the depths of his broad marred chest; he swept her close with a powerful forearm, demanding fiercely of himself that for andraste's sake the guilt and shame and visage of the yellow-eyed woman be relinquished, given up, so that his flesh might become less wary.
the shattering was complete — from his lips had risen the coldest sort of brutality he might offer the cinereal seraph who wrapped slim arms around him and breathed blessings into the undeserving parts of mahler.
and yet she sought their meet all the same, insistence writ into the forging of her finely sculpted features — it was not with reluctance that mahler answered, only with a heady sense of despair
was this the seal of their end?
and, continually flummoxed by the keening arch of his heartbroken lover, met her call with a rough, easy shifting of her slight frame until she was pillared on all sides beneath him, and his teeth had found catlike the finespun gossamer of andraste's exquisite nape.