Northstar Vale and we weren't even married (dmn?)

You're like a dream, Ananke –
never to be disturbed.

But here she is, still unbridled, still unstoppered. Aquiver through midnight and mornlight with the most potent of pleasures  –  of power  –  brimming like a basilisk in the gut of a vessel that has only ever been virginal to such softlings as she, with a vestal flush that comes with the first of magesterial, primeval impositions. She, who had held the jailbird's skull with her fangs and had marked her with the stain of her status; who had seen the selkie from her seat up on high; the one that now she strode with severity for, chittering creature gurgles in the back of arid throat.

It is a thing of utter glory;
not a lustful reaching for the corpreal satisfaction that only her warlord can wreak of her   ( Melkor, Melkor, mine, yes mine, I make melitse make those sounds, they are mine — )   rather, it is that which would only further supplement her malnourished, guilted ego to climes gilded and gleaming. It is a thing that is long overdue  —  “Your preparations for ze quest go smoothly, Fëafelmë?”  —  and this moon she is not sweethearted and unassuming but instead preying, hoarding; mesmerized, marveling with a tang of innocence that only heightens Andraste's first-time high.

Whether it is cock or cunt between the legs of her Courtiers matters not: halfsights hunger for that slip, that fault in the siren's bearing that would give her every godless, gluttonous, gnome-proclaimed goddess' right to push one's face into loam as cat to canary and foster her long-starved selfdom.