Northstar Vale the path to paradise begins in hell

This waltz of wanting;
the tundrian thunders and kunnheku sunknives from the reaching of him; some wanton and whimsical warbling up waxen throat as she dances away away away, again again again; inciting, inviting; the bewitchment of her gaze glimmering up and into him, ever weaving just out of that carnal clutch; marred features write with some faux snarl of fascinated fervor.

But make no mistake, Andraste: I have chosen you—
flush made frost; lips part, lungs airless;
—to be the lovely dust from vich vill come my nation.

Always; always would the fée take such words to stuttering heart; and now prayed that when Wintersbane looked into argent halfsights he would be of a belief that the salted sheen was of mere longing, and not of all that she assumes has been lost to her and will remain so. For the snitch has been impoverished of her; and though she longs to ask of him if she is such dust; if he has ever thought of her belly all tendered with his northron brood; if she were loveless and unpromised and unenchanted and not so brokenhearted; instead,
"I fear that I would not have strength to,"  she instead murmurs; daring to flit nearer,  "for such a name is so very much for ze mouth, and I am so very weak,"  and so another name he must have! Another that perchance she would kneel all the more easier to.

Pressing closer, bartering her sorrows for some excuse of a smile; needing her sentinel to feel how unfortunately she quivered for him.