Northstar Vale – did it forge a love that you might have never found? (chl.)

Unsettled  —  days three without the everpine-berryblack redolence of melitse to keep her grounded and tethered and anchored to her greenseer's world for the ferns and the heather that grows beneath and around them, crowds them. She is a cracked and crumbled temple in this place of silver-rooted spires, nigh long gone to the seed of severity. The paths of the neverthaw have muffled the aimlessness of her; the wild, heartless disorientation without the stars to chart this new hateful hungering dark. She is a territory, unsettled; wanting everything and nothing and all things; wants for the rivers and rich soil and clay, foxgloves; whimpers for the limestone and to remember the feel of Cuivénen kissing the frost from her.

It is there, bathed in song and light, that the unhinged Undómiel unravels in shrouded, heady, sad, hopeless mem'ry and mind, her loneliness. She shivers at the eldritch palming the tapestry of tattered spine, voice airy and northern, sideral in its cold, clammy distance:

“Take it from me. Pleas—,”  Get it out get it out—!
her voice is sorrowing, an age old aria of a woman suffocating within herself and she is stilted for how else? How else might he conquer that which has conquered her so terribly, so thoroughly, so heartrendingly? How else would this grime, this filth be wrested from her if not through the corpreal earthly workings of him against her? The crossing of their fangs to get this out?

The Vale swells and heaves; she is wailing weak and blinking bleary the blighted film from eyes; 
striding for her bewitcher with a step incensed and foul with fear; with a need for him that is not now veneral, but because this horror within her is bristling and beastial; marionette and she cannot stop.