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

It was not worship that the stricken yearned for, but an understanding, and, oh  —  though their salvaging of another now was not shrouded in sensuality, it was no less healing, and not without the heated murmurings beneath it. Andraste is soothed by these moments, breath lulled and fair aching; had become hopelessly joined to him the moment they met. Her lord of war and the minder of her wellness; and his own request of learning her motherstongue is enough to shiver her from the hushed stupor that his delicate tending-to has settled upon her.  “It would be my honor,”  with words that are a smidgen slurred, a smile on shorn lips that is a mite dopey; halfsights, a little drowsy.

“I have missed what it felt like to be held by you, piliöré,”  the fée murmurs, gauzy-eyed and gentled in her Valitúrë's woad arms. Welcome; whole; her lips resume their threading through the frost of his throat, faintly fanged as she again is lulled into her ministrations by the nearness  —  no, the promise  —  of him, entire.