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.

can't compete with your beautiful writing but I wanted to post here! Hope that's okay :)

---

he wakes at the brink of dusk and gets to his feet, eyelids for many moments heavy over his ice green gaze. he knows not where his paws will lead him, but the lone wolf's sole purpose is to find food, and in the darkening of the day he hopes and longs to find unsuspecting night dwelling creatures to make a meal. eventually he grows alert, his pawsteps heavier with purpose as he treks the mountains for which he has sustained a growing fondness. 

the stars and moon are partially concealed by winter clouds but the speckled wolf sees clearly, eyes familiar with the need for nightvision. it is his nostrils, however, which begin to lead him, affronted by the familiar scent of pheasant blood. the scent is faint even as he draws nearer to the source, yet it strengthens still. he peers into the growing darkness to spy a woman, a striking one, with fur the color of the snow underfoot. he has never met her, of course, yet her precense exudes a certain formidability which draws the young male tense. he is thus hesitant to approach, but as it usually does, jigsaws curiosity overwhelms him. 

he emits a soft chuff, attempting to alert her of his presence, although he maintains a submissive posture, ears and tail lowered and a small and friendly smile appearing on his long,narrow snout.

thanks for joining! small post tho

She has quieted, immeasurably;
insomnolence coaxes something tremulous and timid from the vessel of her; an unawares sort of vulnerability that has her mind listing o'er shifting and inscrutable shadows. When said chuff plumps at the down of her ears, lashes weigh heavy; argent eyes a mite dumb and drifting as they now alight upon a ... dappled kith, of some manner or other, yet does not trill back in the way she usually would. Staring;
it is only after a late lapse of mind, however, that the fée remembers what smokes her stomach to scarlet; what is not for her nor him and clumsily she grapples with the laden pheasent that has loosened from her moment of stupor.

Fearful she is not, of course; the littleness of her figure nonwithstanding. She does not quail when she finds the smile upon the mottled snout; and had her mouth not  been full of true feathers Andraste would, perhaps, have returned the unassuming gesture;
for now, though, she settles upon a greeting in the feathering of her thin, longish tail; mute, and eccentrically content.

the wolfdog is met with a response that he finds confusing. The pale beauty grasps her kill without uttering a noise, her jaws clenched firmy giving him the unmistakable knowing that her intent is not to even consider sharing. Instincts of hunger urge him to fall into the dangerous pit of aggression, of challenging the smaller fae for the pheasant she so ardently holds.

And yet he is overwhelmed by the somewhat annoying goodness within his heart. His speechless open jaw closes at last before he tries again to speak to her (remaining all the while doubtful of a response.) 

I do not intend to challenge you for your meal. He confesses, honesty in his words which he hopes are not mistaken for trickery of any kind. I wish simply to explore. Perhaps find a meal of my own. What, he wonders, is there left to say which might lead her to drop the pheasant and talk to him?

My name is Jigsaw. I'm new to these mountains.

For for this brainless bird, she would have fought tooth and claw and more—
but it was not be, for the mottled halfone named Jigsaw did not advance in a way that spoke of instigation. Inquisitive, rather, the undertones, the explanation; of being a new strider to these spires; of finding food for his belly and exploration for his mind's knowing. The may queen is tempted, truly, to let her silence be prolonged to the point of inelegance; for surely in such silence would easement come to those who so deserved it. Yet ... "Alaquenta,"  is what she eventually wisps, bits of down clutching marred lips;
the pheasant sat between snowshoe paws, regardless of his assurances that he is no threat; despite the glinting honesty therein. Not now—  "I found this bird by chance,"  she continued, slow and soft; what meager fur remains upon stricken spine lifting in reminiscence,  "over ze rises, some way back."  A pause. Then:  "I am Andraste."  She must be;
and the ailing Rusalkan rose must eat.

But it was out of politeness, even in such a state, that the silver deigned to remain sat down.

By this point Jigsaw expected the woman to look at him til she bored of his face before turning tail with her feathered prize. this was not something he could have blamed her for with the scarcities affecting not just the wolves, but all living creatures. However she surprised him. Her initial address of him came in a foreign tongue, causing his brow to furrow and head to tilt upward in curiosity. By her expression, he deemed her to mean something positive, joking, at least. The pheasant was dropped to delocate paws not only disolaying trust, but also giving him a change to ask. alaquenta... What do you mean? Another moment and she gave him the origins of her meal. Not the purpose for it,but he deemed this a given; she was hungry and it was for her. There was no need to really delve deeper.

Enquiring after her natal language; curiosity limned within each segment of his being in a way that was so nearly endearing ... had the stricken not been a tad taken aback with said wondering. It was not at all often that an opportune moment such a this presented itself; where another asked of the tongue she had been born with, and where too she might give her so-temporary student the telling of it. And so, plainly put:  "It is a word of my birth,"  she wisps levelly,  "and it is the meaning of ... how do you say? You said something well. Ah, that is to say,"  softened smile, hesitant breaths,  "I know your wish for exploring. For eating."  

Thereafter some quieted and flustered lulls, fidgeting with pheasant:  "Might I ask? Do you have a resting place? Ze eves become cold, and ..."   and it would do well to be where warmth is found.