Northstar Vale the path to paradise begins in hell

Kunnheku;
the silver creature before the tundrian is some starving lambthing, pinked nostrils aflare and pearlmade claws blunting beneath the snows, if only ever to mean to anchor herself against this unforgiving blinding. It has never been an Aurëwen; is now not an Andraste nor Undómiel. She wants and will give and will give and want and hunger for the writhing beneath him, breast to stricken back; moon-jaw wound shut; fangs sealed against another; words wending their way through the throat she wishes he would claim—
“Perhaps, Wintersbane,”  falling from him; faraway; deaf and dumb and near delirium,  “you might consider which ones that you would rather have my mouth be. Perhaps you might plea for it.”  A half-feral and wretched curl to shorn lips that did not meet those gauzy, staring eyes. Plume, fragile feathering at hocks; the scent of irrefutable female arousal; hauntcraft; thrumming with the unraveling of him of her of them and her quivering in a manner of ardent and avaricious abandon. How he had once trembled on his very toes for her! Delightful;
this moment that has seized each and she is made to shudder for him and for the savagery he has coaxed from her.