Northstar Vale zwilling

Utter such a name, she would; scorn him for those grevious, past tidings, she would not.

With the silence that she had struck upon him, the quieted weeping that had befallen them both; that tremulous terror of all that they had wrought together, woven into another; lungs of cotton — Andraste cannot speak any-more through the saltglint upon shorn and numbed lips. A more severe female might have draw herself to whatever heights (that she herself would never have hopes of reaching), and have stared and stared and stared upon this far-fallen male with piteous insolence. A more separate-hearted female might have ne’er expressed these terms; might have indulged with indifference for the sole duty for her people. A more gluttonous woman might have reached for him, risking the fangs and heartkeen of woeful wrath;
but Andraste was neither embodiment; and nor would she enact such towards this General, this Mahler; this male who had broken her yeilding giving foolish gleaming heart with untruths.

Faded sobs gobbling up cold throat; frenzied with fragility; she could no more bear the figment of his impolitic drapery o’er others, as once and first she had not ever cared for  —  'til now, at their end, their faux flame  —  “I will not again give life to a living without love,”  nevermind his deafness; she rises, stilted, jilted;
pray that he proffer the nieninquë to the woman who she would not ever be.  “P-pass auf die türme auf, mein herz,”  turns from Mahler, prompt; fairylight with a quivering step that drew her from the premises  —  and further, lest she be halted.