Northstar Vale & prayer-pale stars that pass the drowsing-incensed hymns (mtr.)

“Yes,”
the immediacy of her answer would perhaps have been mortifying; but she is lain before the warlord that mulls over the feast that she has become; like the girlish dream of wife that she has for-ever forsaken; looks at her like a bride that has consummated herself. A helpless preything mewl shivers from her worn throat as the dulcet, muscular tones of his tongue take hold of her again. Wordless, a mute whimper  —  the shroud of him had been mouthing at her throat and between her thighs. Thighs that now trembled; thighs that she forbids herself from looking upon if only for the captivation of winter-and-rime eyes; blinking tears of euphoria from her own.

What would he have of her?

Andraste is helpless, as always, to his plaguing;
hopeless before his pride. Like a white rabbit in a snare; a dove in a cage; no matter the gilt and gleam of white-gold and lace of shadow. She yearns, headily, womanly and most furiously for that brush against her cheek of his lips and teeth and tongue and the fée kneads stone with claw; pitches her hips in a pathetic sort of way.  “You like this?”  wisping, wanting; scent, cloying. Him, cloying.  “Watching me writhe for you?”

She wants it all from him; she wants for things he holds in ice-mailed fists like weapons and gifts and offerings and her neck. He only presides over her ragged figure and still elicts a deep shiver to sleuth down her stricken spine;
supposes she ought to let him stay there and see her this way.