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

a soft smile tugs at the corners of the warlord's lips as she expresses that it would be her honor to teach him her nativetongue. it does not sound too terribly different than the sounds of tundrian and while melkor does not assume that it would be so easily picked up he hopes that already being bilingual will make things even if a bit easier.

a contented noise rumbles in the strong column of melkor's scarred throat at her words; at the feel of her preening at the frosted fur at his throat, the tangle of her fangs through the wispier hairs. he doesn't flinch from her ministrations though sometimes still dreams of the fight, of the fall and the near death and wakes up with a start and in a feeling that resembles a cold sweat as dread fills his belly with ice pinprickles. were it anyone else with lips and teeth so close to his throat they'd have met his teeth.

he trusts her; with life, with his heart ( and aren't they but the same thing? ).

❝what does it mean?❞ he asks and then clarifies, ❝piliöré.❞