Northstar Vale the tones of your flesh i tempered with pandyssian chalk

whenever u have time, tho staying vague-ish until this gets further along

Gouache moon and molten stars;
wearied Undómiel moves by way of wilted step; she has been mum; thin and quiet and hymnal, were she to threnody for @Melkor's presence; but she does not. Untethered, unsettled  —  that is what she is, delivered unto Court like an atonement to something wild and fickle. Wild and fickle and fey; within the flesh that is only flesh there is a deep and thrumming thing within the chamber of breast: deep, thrumming, crowding each and every passage between these spires, whether through eidolic fog, lungless hinters.

Or, perhaps, the robinsegg glim of the petrified, behemothic majesty that is the Crownseat.

She cannot bring herself to rise through the primeval roots, nor take post upon throne; the musiker's visit has remained to whirl and churn her innards. Faraway. Untethered. And yet—
stars now unveil their lashes, flickering open, waning rose gold ‘round the irreligious and eyeless luneface; warmed to dead and unfeeling flesh. Not all things are able to be as luminous; not all things are given light; lashes, crested and crusted with salt;
but she will know his presence when it unfurls near; threading together as olden and known constellations might.