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—

whispers hung in the bowels of the vale, reaching the ears of the winterborne warlord; of andraste. of her newfound plight to excessively dominate her wolves. part of him wonders if the culprit was the season; a possibility. part of him wonders if he was the culprit. if his commandeering of rank that was not his own at the borders when she was half asleep and not asking the things he thought she should've been; another possibility. perhaps, he ponders ...it is both. a coupling of him and the season. though he sets out from their stonebed — a glimpse at it and something nurturing within him tells him he should soon line it with softfurs — it does not take long for their paths to cross which gives melkor the impression that she, too, was looking for him.

❝andraste,❞ he rumbles her name in greeting; would close the distance to draw her into his embrace but they stand facing one another with an imagined table between them; business. ❝what are you doing, tonttu?❞ melkor asks then without preamble, without explanation; assuming that she's finally come to excessively assert her dominance over him; he who, above all others, deserves it the most, admittedly — upon the assumption that she would understand what exactly he was asking.

he, who had designs to save her from whatever thing that is proving itself far too powerful for her to hold on her own — despite insistence! — so that she might once more become the fey queen that courtfall all deigned to follow.

“Get this o-out of me, pleasemn'Idon'twant –,”
She is crumbling marble; pleading with features writhing in fragments of fury-fear even as this horror bodice-ripper tears at her insides and cleaves into all niches where she trembles the most terrified. She is reeking of hideous hexes and the stench of a scourage. Not me go away go away go away, but her will is undone, unraveled for it is beyond her and devotional to a creature god; deep, primal dark from far before wolf knew tongue that was other than gurgling and growling and she growls; a burbling and blasphemed she-animal noise at the taste of devilsbreath within her. It moans and creaks with an old, corrupted throat, hot and ashy so she chokes on it still, tongue spilling from the keep of her teeth in pants heavy and harried; he is here
and though she is not within the vestiges of season she is balefire; a festering flame that gobbles up her innards and clots bile in her throat.  “Mel—”

Damp, fetid rainsweat frothing flanks;
she finds she cannot reach him, reach for him, frozen and trembling in abject despair and make not another noise. Half of her needs his teeth in her flesh somewhere everywhere; half of her strains against her own marrow and pines for dominion but Andraste  —  tonttu  —  is fraying, frenzied, and assumes some bracing stance. Him, him;
conquer me dominate you help me please help me I can't won't can't do this I need you please please and salt knives and gouges grooves down down down the ruined moon-face of her; some soulthing wailing that he must see her this way; that they all have and she is helpless, headless.

get this out of me; andraste pleas.

how? how is he to temper a monster that he cannot see? alas, he is not able to take some magick potion to let him see the unseen and can only take this as he knows how: rationally. pragmatically, melkor regards her, regards her state which hardly seemed to be the domineering queen of the unseelie court that has been excessively dominating her followers, when as far as he can tell — not having been present — wasn't a necessary evil. there were always those times, yes ...but from what he has gathered she has the respect of those who call themselves courtfallians; as it should be.

❝if singular power is too much for you — too much temptation to be an unruly leader — then perhaps you shouldn't have it.❞ the tundrian steps towards his lover, glacial gaze meeting hers in unmistaken challenge. his goal is not to usurp her entirely; courtfall is her domain and she should, rightfully, rule it. however, it has become clearer and clearer to him, starting with the half-slumbering interrogation at the borders to the tentative here and now that she needs a counter balance.

❝let me shoulder half of the burden with you. let me be your counter weight so the power is balanced.❞ the words themselves might be give an implication of suggestion but the expression upon frostborne, scarred visage tells that he is not suggesting.

Unsettled  —  days three without the everpine-berryblack redolence of melitse to keep her grounded and tethered and anchored to her greenseer's world for the ferns and the heather that grows beneath and around them, crowds them. She is a cracked and crumbled temple in this place of silver-rooted spires, nigh long gone to the seed of severity. The paths of the neverthaw have muffled the aimlessness of her; the wild, heartless disorientation without the stars to chart this new hateful hungering dark. She is a territory, unsettled; wanting everything and nothing and all things; wants for the rivers and rich soil and clay, foxgloves; whimpers for the limestone and to remember the feel of Cuivénen kissing the frost from her.

It is there, bathed in song and light, that the unhinged Undómiel unravels in shrouded, heady, sad, hopeless mem'ry and mind, her loneliness. She shivers at the eldritch palming the tapestry of tattered spine, voice airy and northern, sideral in its cold, clammy distance:

“Take it from me. Pleas—,”  Get it out get it out—!
her voice is sorrowing, an age old aria of a woman suffocating within herself and she is stilted for how else? How else might he conquer that which has conquered her so terribly, so thoroughly, so heartrendingly? How else would this grime, this filth be wrested from her if not through the corpreal earthly workings of him against her? The crossing of their fangs to get this out?

The Vale swells and heaves; she is wailing weak and blinking bleary the blighted film from eyes; 
striding for her bewitcher with a step incensed and foul with fear; with a need for him that is not now veneral, but because this horror within her is bristling and beastial; marionette and she cannot stop.

fighting with her ...even as relatively harmless as a spar of dominance is not what he wants; but the world has rarely given melkor what he has wanted. it twists his path and forces him to decisions that are never easy but necessary evils over and over. he would not hurt her, he is determined. would not break and blister her skin with sharpened canines designed for exactly that purpose. fate sits upon her cloudy perch overlooking the lovers as she now draws nearer and melkor pitches his own path so that he is circles like a boxer in a fighting pit; crookedly fate chuckles ever delighted.

without voice, without warning melkor rushes for her, teeth aiming for ( scarred? ) nape in the hopes of pushing her to the dirt beneath him. if talking will not free her from whatever non-benevolent thing that possesses her than perhaps force will. ❝stop.❞ rumbles from his chest ( perhaps muffled by her fur if his attempt to grasp her scruff is successful ); the terrible command of a terrible general that is willing to let whatever unseen beast claims her slither into him. he is a warlord, is he not? he can handle it, he tells himself.

The Fates three blind fray red lovers' thread;
wrenching mangling thumbing, she can feel the soft press of small scissoring scythe's edge at the fairywing-thin snippets, too soft against all that binds him to her and her to him and threatens to dismantle it all and everything with one snide, exultant snip. It knives light and inflamed up and through her spine and skin and then he is looming before her, dusking 'round her; billowing eve to the cold crescent that is she and in a heartbeat's reprieve the fairylight lets herself falter within his fangs; lets herself be held, be crowded to unthaw  —  but her stomach churns into itself, hot and heavied and hideous and she hates it she hates it begone begone begone beg–

He, heavy-hitter; she, swarmer;
Andraste lets herself writhe wretched against the stout bindings he has ensnared her within, his breath searing the base of her skull, laving into unmarked ruff all gaunt and stabbing joints and addled adamancy. Spindly joints and sharp shoulders and swaybacking beneath the breadth of him; hears his command and can only gurgle some low and lost thing; can only thrash against him,
fluted neck arching in a  (futile)  attempt to dislodge the vice of him as she makes to snap and hiss bedeviled at air fursbreadth from woad features; cauldron eyes leaping the crushing-blue crucible as plaintive creature calls of rebellion ricochet from some thin place within her breast—
all aquiver as the devilry sloughs from her; stays within her; neverleaves her and she strains against whate-ever has ensorcelled her marrow with means to end her.

i was given permission to pp andraste. i tried to keep it minimal though. <3

melkor is brawn, a boxer; heavy hitter made for brute force while andraste is small, built for assured agility. yet, as a master warrior he has a distinct edge upon her yet ...if one could even call this a true spar. beneath the grasp of his scruff she attempts to dislodge his old and for a second her insistent thrashing almost succeeds. grip readjust, tightening upon her scruff as he throws a foreleg over her; looming. using his body to try to quell the worst of her attempts as he lowers weight upon her spine in effort to still her.

❝stop.❞ melkor commands once more 'round mouth full of her scruff.

<3

Compression;
Melkor begins then to press this malificent malady from her as if burnishing clotted ink from frail, furling parchment. With the brawn of him, his fée's thrashings beneath him have become significantly muted; his frostladen breast burdens the angular shoulders; the heavy wending of foreleg 'round ribs is then something that the seelie fortifies herself against. This is not a coupling and yet she crescents like a yew bow against him all the same  —  so that her Valitúrë might only be further galvanized into weighing her down with himself and together.

She does not have to wait long;
temple to stone; blindbride stares up at bewitcher with the dead, cloudthick thing in sunken socket; thanksgiving, thinning; soothed and strewn beneath his pressing like the faded fury of a white flag held in insistant hands. An acquiescing and primitive avowal, of blood, not bond; surrender and sáquetië ...
for better, or for worse.

Downy and diminished everything, she;
Andraste  (if eventually freed)  arcs the ache within her neck so that she might lace gentle the tip of pinked nose to his torn, blackberry cheek. Exhausted, exhaustion; murmuring numb nothings.

wrap up post. <3

the press of his weight upon her slender shoulders and spine appears to have done the trick. her thrashing stills and she becomes complacent like beneath him. if there was any other time he can remember being so forceful in his dominance it was not a happy memory; it came at the cost of severing a sister from his family as if that were enough to rip her blood out of his own. he had threatened to kill her; had wanted to kill her. melkor, for all his might, does not like the unearthed curse of a memory that this position gives him and so teeth retract and he moves from her.

yet utters no apology as he looks down upon his lover pressed upon the dirty snow. he stands by his demand of her: to share the power of sovereignty with him. he took no joy in dominating the fey queen; takes no joy in seeing her kneeled before him like a common housemaid. ❝go and rest tonttu. i will handle the borders and wake you if anything dire happens.❞ though he finds the occurrence of that unlikely.