Northstar Vale and we weren't even married (dmn?)

lowkey mood tbch

It did not feel as paltry a thing as good;
it felt divine. It devoured her delighted her; only gave her more and more and more and more and more and so when the waterlily descended to belly but did not show it the feverish fairylight glut the sight of it, properly set to slather 'bout ruined mouth and wreathe the face into Medusian frieze. The only thing that stopped her from screaming sobbing into neck with salt kniving down desecrated features  submit to me!  whispering whimpering wobbly  please.  were the words that instead halted whatever harrowing advance she had begun to administer her way and then earned the naiad another breed of insulted shriek entirely:

“I am not shaken. I do not need to be shown.”

She was an impling creature incensed by the impervious suggestion that this lótë so proferred; sent strutting with the stumbly unsurety of the situation and what knowledge had been so presented to her. She shivers, fawn; lambthing laden with far too much first-wool. Held still by Fëafelmë's offer and her own indignance, her own wretched infantilism. Organization, routine; the diligence of structure, all that did not retain an inkling within that wistful, tender soul  —  unfettered power envelopes that chasm of never-was-there, makes the fée bare the whites of her eyes and fangs and gives vigorous shakes of her skull. Grasping reaching clawing for a control that she does not have. She had been born into inheritance, yes  –  but the tempering had not been a learned thing.

She never had.

Her flanks wither and wind; sails streaked with the rainslick exertion of indecision. The figurehead of Andraste's will of dominion still thrusts itself against the rigidty of her bones; straining. But  —  a sobering speck of sun, peeking through the ravening storm, if only but for a moment.

Her lower, cut lip wobbles, stupidly. Helplessly; self-hatingly.