Northstar Vale you've made a pig's ear

“We are sanctsuaries and stormhold,”  (stronghold)  wisps the lulled fairylight. It does not occur to her that she might be followed, herself; just as it does not occur to her that others may very well have refused this wanderess; does not realize the tundrian by her until she promptly turns  —  enacting, pathetically, her gesture of invitation for letting whomever walk with her  —  and shanty-shambles right into that woad shoulder of his with a wrung little whine of
“@Melkor,”
halfsights hold the make of the tundrian in a manner which  (were she not so sleeplessly sleepy)  might have been a valiant effort to be contemptuous; chiding of his very existence at her side:  You’re everywhere. Where do you end?  Stumbling steps, several more blustering ladybug steps into shoulder and ribs, hips and bum and it was enough! He was enough to have her voice warbling wretched from worn throat, distractedly, dazedly, dotingly:  “my mate.”

Someone ought to know, should they not?
— it was the forget-me-not reasoning that she gives herself, ever as the impending gloam of slumber issued it more as forget-by-morning. No matter, this, surely! For she has conquered her blundering circumference of him; and now beckons the plighter, the pleader kneeling at the steps of their Court to follow her own off-kilter driftings. Chords a pitched, strained, rubbing-at-eyes quality:  "Everyone has name, and I am to takes it that– you have a name? Names?"  Names!  Her words rise into a beguiled burble; an unfocused, nigh unhinged look of lethargic gaiety stone-thrown her lover’s way. Who was to say that this red-eyed rogue would wish for a new one, herself?