Northstar Vale & prayer-pale stars that pass the drowsing-incensed hymns

@Panther!
Dated for 8/23

In the humming place with frogsong and their lotuses, beneath the gloaming’s gouache moon and cotton clouds and gold-hot stars, the strider sought to forage through the ferns. It seemed that no matter where she settle, Aurëwen was wont to avoid society as she did mirrors — more than ever, she could not help to be away— yet she could not elude her mourning familiar.

So, as was his wont, he had winged after her, and settled into the plush hollow between spire shoulders; the silver had remained patient with the pinpricking of Aegelius along her fine, fair back whenever she’d halted or knelt to study. But as her steps meld into the summer waters, her dove parts from her to favor the deepening eve as she murmurs her way through pads, through fronds.

Something tells her no, but it seems a silly protestation, and so her step becomes more sure. She did not fear another encounter with the acclaimed wanheda; and knew that the grey warden had flown steadfastly into the riverland’s ranks. There was no fear, here: only a weightless, heady lucidity within her. She has let herself list within the labyrinth of her mind.

Like a hundred hesitant lovers, trendils whisper phantom down that fine, fair back and over waxen, narrow hips. The druid remained there, wanting them all, as these waters mouthed at scarred ribs and at the cinching within her belly; cradled her up to her elbows, lingering just as she.

The witching hour is left aghast by her presence, but she is here; and from her throat issues an airy beckoning; a siren’s sigh, for whoever may arrive at her haunt, come to drown within her.