Northstar Vale oh, really? you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?

for @Melkor ♡ takes place from the 8th & wakes up today on the 10th! other tags for reference w permission :o

Bewitcher had sent his betrothed beneath the world; it was within their Rest, upon their stonebed that the dream-maker Morpheus and his soothsayer brothers two became the aegis of her; drew her into their arms, lie her down and fashioned figments that would cradle her fathomless to slumber; welding her lashes shut and whispering wellness;
it was timeless, here, and Undómiel drifted out of thought for what seemed a life-age. Her needs became primordial and few; like how, upon this third morn, the merest musing of Melkor stirred something delightful within her breast and belly; a sensation that kneaded down her stormcloak and worked itself into her thighs and between. She lips at what fur she can reach; rummages through it for all the warmth of him that is not enough. But wary, perhaps, she has made him  —  and why ever not?

On several occasion now had she stumbled after him when what-ever business must be conducted on the threshold of their privy pocket and could not lie with her; graceless elephantine steps and had even, once, gurgled and giggled the words  “I have followed you, my heart,”  with @Cupid present. Had, too, hobbled after that blue backside snipping and slurring some nonsense of  “Belly anything?”  (supposed translation: feed me?)  during reports of @Kalika and always, always was she herded back to bed.

And if, heavens forbid, visitation were had within the privacy of their Rest, to be involved was to have a strength that she did not have. But whether known for a year or day, she would miss not a moment to impress the truth of how insufferably mulish she be:

It was when @Star  (or, had it been @Tundra? bah!)  ventured into their chambers that the fée woke with whuffling sounds; skull wobbling on shoulders with a weakness that trembled her against betrothed’s broad back; with chin eventually coming to prop itself between the tender hollow between the lock of sturdy shoulders. Through fogged eyes that took a century to blink, took an age to settle gauzy and glistering upon another’s features; ruined mouth crusted with stale breath and some spittle  —  she had triumphed!
and could not help the thick-tongued, frothy-lipped bleat that punctured idly through what-ever canvass was beind daubed with their words ... and that was all it took for Andraste to return to her slumbering;
whisked away by the swift depletion of stamina from her whelpish outburst: her cheek bedded down into the woad hollow, her eyes lidded; all silence and soft snores.

Hours and hours ago, that;
she is in this final one of repose, now. And though her fears remain, what-ever vestiges of fevered fury has finally, finally faded from her; though frail it has left her. There is a delicacy wound through her bones and she is all tendered-raw; the laden workings of dreambrothers is done.

The Court's fairylight soon wakes, gumming stupidly at her own paw and remembers absolutely nothing of her errant, sleep-addled endeavors in Cuivénen.