Northstar Vale a grin as sharp as a knife (mtr.)

“Waters of Awakening,”  words, wisping;
quivering flesh beneath lune hide has felt nigh frigid where she had been pressed against him and against another’s; the purling, underearth air trendiling around the severed parts of them with an unassuming hand. The coldness of her ailing heart suggests that she should swan into the lukewarmth with him; alights the imagery therein of cradling herself against him, ribs ensnared; of resting her desecrated cheek upon stout shoulder. To enter the calm, rippleless plane of glassy, robinsegg water, glimmering; to enact upon the fairyring'd fragments of what-ever was leftover that still limned the very vessel of her;
staring and sleepy-eyed, even when presented with the devilry of that trademark skullgrin. Some amusement was to be had, then, in the reversal of privy roles: he seemed captivated in some manner of loquaciousness; she, rocked in a fathomless hush. This early in the morn, she wishes nothing but to be so.

But cobwebbed lips part to parry his evident and knived coquetry:  “I will consider such a name that is befitting of what you are,”  (that is, as best as she is able to conjure in such a lethargic hour)  “only if, however, you vow to ne'er call me queen.”  Aiolos; Dagwood; all, it seems  —  this insistence to end such beliefs was of a paramount, personal matter. She would not have minded, had she still been a whelp;
but she was woman, entire; an irrevocable truth that she tended to heed evermore when in the presence of followers; flames. To be queen  —
how could she be, with all that is wretched within her?