Northstar Vale i wouldn’t want my child married to a jailbird (dmn.)

It was the bell beneath the countertop that saved her;
the one that'd looked at her like she was some gangster's graceless glam-goddess that she would not ever be  —  and she shirked it, really, for the same reason that she is ever dismissive of followers' belief of queen. She does not wish to answer the prayers and plights of others and yet it is all that her Court has been founded for; and yet still there is a laurel'd voice and she is writhing Proserpina beneath the willowboughs; straining melted marble reaching with arms to wend into trendils. A remnant of throe for Pluto  (but he is not here!)  —
“Perhaps you should bestow me one, little gnome,”
— desecrated eyes unveiled by hooded lashes, heavy lashes as she stares and stares and stares at the shy little faun all Atlas upside-down; waiting with the throat that will never know a female's kiss bared, cinching; thrust from fluted collarbones and feathered breast. Waits,
and wonders if this sunsetting Astynome had taken some cruel-blue pleasure in the sight of her heart's dismantling for the machiavellian mafioso.