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

She hears him as if through the murmur of creekwater: distant, distorted by the rending of spirit from skin, and into him. She cannot pull away; gums and tooths at where she rest near neck; feels the prick of fang upon shoulder and shivers, faraway. Potent and impassioned; as mighteous as the moniker she's bestowed; enlightened of another in a way that is pure intimacy and through snippets that veil themselves in his permafrost undertones. He is alive. He breathes not the tales of a dead or divided male — but instead is a waking saga. And yet;
though heal wounds all that Time might, how in heavens would she press past those once-fond thoughts of the plinth and the lair; shrug all sweetwords from faltered shoulders as if undonning from a devoted mantle? How would she pluck forth another, and drape 'round her that of Melkor?

The fairylight trembles, at this timid rightness; hoping;
“And, what of you?”  she wisps, peeking up at him with eyes that shy and a shoulder that only rolls ever into the mischievous mouth.  “Do you think yourself ... worthy enough?”  The words are strange, when said with her own tongue; as if it is a half-truth, a half-belief of herself. And though she has not sworn herself to the tundrian, ever-liberal that he is, she ...
turns from him; hides once-lovely features into the woad of him.