The Sunspire rather than pictures, i prefer filled palettes, diaries, & times i was asleep

Auspicious was this eve!—
        slavering the pheasant-down against tongue and the roof of mouth; the grainfat belly jostling at pale feathered breast. For all she strove in the name of refinement, Undómiel's own innards cinched, clawing into the hollowed trenches of a gut that ever-yearned; yet it was not she who must hunger as she so oft did; and it was not hers to feast from. No—
        her insomnious interlude of the deep and dark dawn had ended just a bell ago, when plumage had flurried heavenward in the luneface and a wild and fey and choice clang of fangs had the blood guzzling to rivulets. It is only now, finally now, that Andraste wends her way on the return to her Court.

        And though she aches to hunker like an ill-mannered goblin amongst the shadowed spire's foothills and devour wing and windpipe whole, she must not;
        for it is for the roseling, entire, as she is the only flourishing amongst them all; and so the disheveled, drowsy fée must remain at ease with the rubied ambrosia upon tongue from fowlvein. This hunt, however harried, had not been for naught, no?

        Throat, muted; heavy-lashed; a yawn, stifled against caught flesh;
        Andraste is certain her paws will chart her steady for the vale once more (stumbles and staggers notwithstanding). And should they fail her, well — halfsights chariot up up up past the crown of purplish pine tops, to the sky beyond. The waxing of the sun spilling rich winter greeting over that waning black velvet; the northern constellations tucking away for a day’s slumber that she has not yet settled into. The flitting thing within her breast longs to leap into that half-home.

        But the stricken is earthbound; sunknived. The heavens had stamped the remainder of her existence to loam and to stone; lain her upon golem time and again; were she ever to doubt it ... the broke-winged pheasant speaks for it all.