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

The Fates three blind fray red lovers' thread;
wrenching mangling thumbing, she can feel the soft press of small scissoring scythe's edge at the fairywing-thin snippets, too soft against all that binds him to her and her to him and threatens to dismantle it all and everything with one snide, exultant snip. It knives light and inflamed up and through her spine and skin and then he is looming before her, dusking 'round her; billowing eve to the cold crescent that is she and in a heartbeat's reprieve the fairylight lets herself falter within his fangs; lets herself be held, be crowded to unthaw  —  but her stomach churns into itself, hot and heavied and hideous and she hates it she hates it begone begone begone beg–

He, heavy-hitter; she, swarmer;
Andraste lets herself writhe wretched against the stout bindings he has ensnared her within, his breath searing the base of her skull, laving into unmarked ruff all gaunt and stabbing joints and addled adamancy. Spindly joints and sharp shoulders and swaybacking beneath the breadth of him; hears his command and can only gurgle some low and lost thing; can only thrash against him,
fluted neck arching in a  (futile)  attempt to dislodge the vice of him as she makes to snap and hiss bedeviled at air fursbreadth from woad features; cauldron eyes leaping the crushing-blue crucible as plaintive creature calls of rebellion ricochet from some thin place within her breast—
all aquiver as the devilry sloughs from her; stays within her; neverleaves her and she strains against whate-ever has ensorcelled her marrow with means to end her.