Northstar Vale das gericht

"Oh, now, Mahler — with a cunt such as this, I very much doubt anyone could."

Sneering with shorn lips at that flared retreat; sighing near euphoric upon the stone where he had tried to take her; some ecstatic murmuring fluting from her breast as Undómiel gives her eyes to the deep and dark vaulted reaches of her lair and lets this murmuring burble into a malacious mirth that is not at all of the gentled greenseer that the musiker had once known; the one who had only wept herself tearless thrice into his arms and now had seen to indulge the remnants of herself in the wringing all of him from cullions that now not even she could not coax to brimming!

So made for love, she;
and yet as the Undimming rose to find her own footing, she knew that never again would she let such a thing take up settlement within that beating and bleeding breast. She knew now that the musiker would not ever belong to her in the way she had so yearned to belong to a man. But, then — it had not been she who held him as not another could ever have! It must have been only this aching thing between her thighs that had coaxed him to her again and again and again, to the plinth and to the lair and the glen and here, it was all it would ever be—

She did not think of the spring, and all that it would and would never hold. Instead:
"There is no use in pretending that you did not breathe for it,"  was the sonorous slander, now; sidling all serpentine to the heather flank.  "But I will not have you lost amongst my halls in your state of fatigue."

If he would not fall to his very knees for her, then unheeded he would be;
should he now not rise to her and deign to put these doubts to rest.