Porcupine Ridge the abyss leers in hissing ruts

last post from me <3

Rebuttle;
in the same time there is the flush of the offended there is the cursing of her own pincushion heart: she is not as faraway as she oft favors in being. Her features have been poured into crucible and fashioned to myriad somethings that are far too open, too before the eye of others. A bit more hollow-eyed, a bit less hesitant. Offense, off-kilter; there is no burbling scorch for the harpy and her corsair—she has simply found herself too sensitive to the touch of even the most unassuming no's, hint or no.

She cannot glean it, though it is felt;
felt perhaps to the point where leave-taking is unnecessary and yet to the dimming Undómiel, it seems to be something opportune. Their privacy and all it held; it was theirs, and she would no more allow herself to linger here. Not when another stood by the lótë's shoulder and the fée was draped then in a dishonorable thing; souring in gut and in spirit and feeling nothing more than a low intruder.

Wisping gentle well-wishes in valerian and another of gates be open to you, the mourning dove smiled melancholy and sweetened and soon phased past; flitting from such intimate wolven energy; from soulmeld so palpable.