Northstar Vale – did it forge a love that you might have never found? (chl.)

January 8th!! woowoi what a hot mess

Three days for wishes three;
dove and waterlily and cherub;
fear and ferocity and fragility.

Plagued with the potency that has no more use for her; what-ever pall of power that has ridden her, fucked her unforgiving, made her froth and slather and gnash her teeth and tear at stone and loam and frost and thaw with claws, claws of pearl, clawing at the dirt on its back  —  it has found her wanting and now means to leave her. She wants it she doesn't want it, wants it bad wants it terribly, wants her soul to keep thrashing on it and throwing her tresses ever-forever, doesn't want to leave it but it wants to leave her, spits and hisses that she is not good enough holds her thighs, her knees; her lily-white breast and throat that she proferred to the dove and protected from the waterlily. Grime;
filth pestilence, a sucking thing at her skin, this power. It presses eidolic lips against her ear, runs preternatural fingers through her ruff, laves her hips, pushes on her marked spine. It is somehow wanton, a twisted kind of cooing in the way it seethes and
she is groaning and moaning and wheezing and whispering it's too much too much too much far too much, much too far she cannot, she cannot ever conquer it so she is left to stumble, straining through the vale's reaches.

It chokes the air from her, makes the hallowed glens vacuous and strangling. It is an eldritch enmity; stills her, keeps her captive in her own quivering skin. Her lips part, eliciting soft small sobs as the gloom breathes its rancid, ravening voice across her skin in one airy, menacing murmur, like a putrid, stagnant wind soughing across the understory. Her heart beats impossible and irregular in the fawnthin bone cage of her breast like a wild animal,
possessed.

Blindbride pursuing and pleading for her bewitcher @Melkor and talk and touch and this plague, this pestilence that has her unraveled to her very veins—