Porcupine Ridge the abyss leers in hissing ruts

"No,"  and she should thank what-ever gods had decided to stay, believed or no  —  and yet, and yet! not three suns from this day would Andraste bear the tell-tale scripture, raw and red and resemblance to the selfsame lioness that they spoke of within the hour. She was not yet further tattered, and neither the matron, no; and yet, still, as if through some lapse;
"If ever you should need– O, supplies, I suppose– ah, tending to,"  words a bit stilted; worn from the everyday refinery she was so oft veiled within,  "well, my Court is not so far away."

Something  —  burgeoning within breast, selfish and sorrowing and a little hopeless; the fairylight ever smiles through it, strives to perhaps connect, at the very least, in some sense that is diplomatic and not altogether despondent. Then:
"I ... well, how is ze coast? Being from it so long, with ze earth's quakings, how—"  she must ask, for Rusalka had not been her enemy, ever:  "How does your own fare?"