Northstar Vale Sleep off the destruction

am assuming this takes place November 1st!

Fairylight;
her smile is there, shy, simpering; scarcely caged, entirely unbidden, by the soft and corporeal premises of shorn lips. By lulls she presides over the dead heads of foxgloves and mints; admires their hidden delight; their ever-awaiting for springtide and the blooming. Nature contains a multitude of them—the emergence of life, dampened and yawning, drawing deep for breath.[size=14px%%] [/size]Around her, everything is stretching for harvests' finale; reaching towards the shrouded shade of dawn, and the sybil breaths, taking deep into her lungs the cold and dry everything; the remnants of mist and whispers left behind, woven. Greedily scents compressed and decomposing plant life. Pine, wreathing; meltwater wends a shimmering array of serpentine rivulets.

Andraste, Andraste;
made to shift in, ebb out; thrumming, vibrant flesh, and then moss and lurking lichens, stationed. Ageless; mock-sentinel. Pining for an irregular for-ever and is now resigned vaguely, blearily, in that her only pregnancy is wonderlost; and that her womb will never again swell; undeserving. A delicate yawn; the knowing of it and this therein. 

She tries not to long for those she cannot have — aquiver though her heart may be.

But! soul encompasses her; and in time she arrives to this meet of the yearling and his elder; ash, enquiring towards ember. Arrives, and remains hushed, wisping,  "Where might you be meaning to chart to?"  halfsight somnolent, though not without the clarity that comes with curiosity.