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

“‘Thief of my heart,’”
and there is a moment where Andraste cannot help but feel hopelessly girlish and the wish to again veil her features from his gelid, patient eye entreats her nigh unbearably; but she must, for once, resist such an act, and instead bare herself before him in a manner that is as modest as could be. Still  –  thin ears quail and quiver for his verdict of such a word, and it does not take long  (or much)  for her shorn lips to part in a timid breath of:  “My language, it is ... not as succinct as your own. Would that I could give you something that is more suitable-sounding,”
and would that she knew how long-winded that tundrian tongue could be! But she does not, and so holds herself with a bit of chagrin that her own is without words that are as simple and as sweet as what Melkor himself had bestowed upon her. Thief of her heart  –  he had certainly thieved her in the dark dawn, had he not? A faint, half-hearted reminiscence curling between her thighs;
but was he not also the stalwart of said heart, vigiliant and valorous?

A pensive trill flutes from her own throat, mulling over all else that she could possibly, probably dub him by; the sound itself some unbidden wont of having kept herself so near and within his company this past fortnight ... and for all those to come.