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

tiny post bc i fell asleep while writing it lmao

She is captivated calm of old, opal'd gleaming, wreathed by those gnarled reignroots;

There comes no sleep for her, as well; beleaguered by mem'ry of composer's visitation and of Cuivénen; fated to walk and want for shadowmelt to sculpt into the waking midnight of the tundrian. He, with possession of her unsettled, auroral soul  —  Undómiel only notices he is near some time after a thin ear tilts back, towards that cooing call, away from her melancholy, absent mind. The longing of her body tugs at the glimmering strands therein, entreating her to look and finally, eventually, she does;
sore eyes owlish and misted are withdrawn of despondency as the figure of Melkor comes into view; and even in her lapse of perception, the fée makes to rise, to drift faint o'er fronds to meet him at some halfpoint;
her waxen throat flutes with soft greeting and she does not speak, for now; only reaches and reaches to daub her pinked nose against those dark lips.