Northstar Vale the path to paradise begins in hell

there is a certain level of irony he finds in returning in the early cusp of winter, when heavy snowfall curbs his return, forcing him to re-route and descend upon the treacherous mountains of where courtfall found its solstice. if he was smart he would abandon all hope; there was no reason for the fey queen to accept him, especially when she does not remember their history. ...would history even matter now even if she did? he asks himself. it shouldn't.

how many times over the years has he given his loyalty and tore it away; as if he can do no else. wintersbane isn't sure he knows the true meaning of loyalty. no ...no that wasn't true. relmyna. his deceased love's — his first love — flashes before eyes as cold as the ice capped rock he puts distance between upon his descent towards northstar vale. he'd been loyal once. to her and while she was alive to blackfeather.

that felt like so many lifetimes ago now.

steps slow as he nears the borders, leaving distance between them and himself. he was large and lumbering and if they were to chase him from their borders he wanted time to escape relatively unscathed. he wasn't in a mood to fight. the winter was harsh and though he's eaten like a king outside of the wilds the famine does not fall beneath keen observation.

nevertheless, he lifts his muzzle in low summons for @Andraste; no longer able to summon the volume he once had prior to the fight that almost ended him.

"Have you come to poach—"
She remembers the feel of him resting upon her; holding her in arms of woad and blighting her all the while. She looks upon the moonlighter now and would like to think that he looks as gorgeous as a hearthfire and oh, how she has sought such a singular warmth! and so it comes to quilt her ears and bed down within a breast that has beat much too quiet.
"—or pledge, Wintersbane?"

For all that she has entrusted to him once upon a time, and for all that he once led her flight through these selfsame spires, Undómiel could not again allow her beliefs to be perched upon the wearied wonders of all those she has believed to truly know. In a mere few days, such a vagrant had staggered past sanctuary perimeters, and the dawn before that had made evidence of a ghostlion lurking amongst them all.

And for all the softness within her and for all the solace she would only wish upon all ailing, Andraste will not find failure in that, again.

fortunately, she appears to be nearby enough to hear his ruined call as it splices through the chilling serenity that looms over this vale. for a man who has sought nothing so still as peace, it feels a bit too unreal. and yet, here it is. erected before him. without him; of his own doing, of course. her question is fair and wintersbane neither bedgrudges her for nor take offense of it. his weight shifts slightly, body posturing neutrally but does not defer her, her respect.

to pledge, he rasps. if you'll still have me.

In what way?
The musing is something a smidgen guarded and altogether unbidden  —  but Wintersbane is the teller of all that has culmulated up until present, now. Friend and foe and follower and flame; he is well-fed, however, and with what her other Valitúrë the Court has since acquired she sees him too as a wise addition, especially now when the times are so harrowing and harsh and apparently unending.

And yet, she was not altogether sure how prolonged his stay would this time be.

But Undómiel rounds him with a pensive step; sidles at his shoulder and tucks herself along the blue ribs. She is lonely but does not long as oft she once did. He looks to perchance be a spinner of fine stories, and she would like to listen, and so, as she pressed the frostmade past her Court's premises:  "Tell me a tale."

wintersbane watches as she rounds him, head gesturing so his eyes can follow her path; muscles of his flank trembling as she tucks herself against his ribs. it feels familiar; brings with it the unbidden memory of the night they spent in each other's embrace. he does not pull away. does not put distance between as he thinks that perhaps he should. can either of them claim to be the same wolf as they'd been that night? he cannot and suspects that she cannot either.

but he cannot claim that he does not still desire her in the same manner ...for he does. achingly so.

a tragedy in the making, perhaps.

tell me a tale. she requests and wintersbane only barely bites back his low, breathy chuckle. i am no bard. he protests lightly; his mother might've held a fantastical affinity for it he, himself, did not.

Tremulous at her merest touch;
it is a havoc he wreaks within her and Undómiel must halt him; must press the spire of a shoulder into the winterspun breast to study the woad mouth of him; to wonder how his fangs would feel around her throat as he melded her ever further into the hold of him. And so simply would that happening be: to devour another here, where all and none might see; to drown beneath the earth where the waters were warm and he would be as suffocating and as smothering as that eve;
the embrace of his thighs about hers; the depraved and delectable decadence; nipping at her shoulders as frost is wont to do and it is with a gentled and quivering breath that the impling means to regain herself. If it is surely again but a pull of the season—
he knows he knows, yes  (he has always known)
—then why must he arise when-ever another held her heart?

She wonders how it perhaps would have been, had ever she loved him  —  and never he, as she has long learnt, of her. Still;
some scarce and strained and broke-heart breath, as if she might only send him from her sights; to do away with this infuriating ache and the simmering, stifling:  "What of a solider, then?"

the moment, which seems to stretch on for longer than just a mere moment is rife with building tension. wintersbane, studies her with a sway of his tail, with a twitch of muscles in shoulders and hips; bidding him to reman still. to be as stone; hard and devoid of the warmth he feels emitting from her. she is lovely temptation, even with all of her scars — as she has always been for him. and he can do nothing but resist; but fight the more base of his natures. the cruelty of the truth is she is not his and would never be, he fears.

but even acknowledging that believed truth to himself does nothing to stifle the ache. the simpering flame.

a low grunt is given at her new request. a tale as a soldier? of those i have many ...but battle is ugly, cruel and brutal. it doesn't make for good tales, i'm afraid. his lips twist mirthlessly, a large breath taken inhaling little else but her scent. sweet and floral and - and — i could tell you of how i earned these scars, or how i fought my sister and almost killed her. how i considered it. perhaps, he thinks though he has not seen hide nor hair of her, he should've killed her.

Kunnheku;
the silver creature before the tundrian is some starving lambthing, pinked nostrils aflare and pearlmade claws blunting beneath the snows, if only ever to mean to anchor herself against this unforgiving blinding. It has never been an Aurëwen; is now not an Andraste nor Undómiel. She wants and will give and will give and want and hunger for the writhing beneath him, breast to stricken back; moon-jaw wound shut; fangs sealed against another; words wending their way through the throat she wishes he would claim—
“Perhaps, Wintersbane,”  falling from him; faraway; deaf and dumb and near delirium,  “you might consider which ones that you would rather have my mouth be. Perhaps you might plea for it.”  A half-feral and wretched curl to shorn lips that did not meet those gauzy, staring eyes. Plume, fragile feathering at hocks; the scent of irrefutable female arousal; hauntcraft; thrumming with the unraveling of him of her of them and her quivering in a manner of ardent and avaricious abandon. How he had once trembled on his very toes for her! Delightful;
this moment that has seized each and she is made to shudder for him and for the savagery he has coaxed from her.

how does it always seem to come to this? this crescendo of unchained lusts? perhaps their fate sealed that night they shared with each other or perhaps it was some red string of fate that kept bringing them back and to here; and yet he cannot bring himself to care that this is by and far the unruliest initiation he's ever had at borders, nor that any of her wolves could stumble across them at any given time.

let them see.

decorum, clearly, wasn't apart of how he oft operated.

let them see the seduction of the fey queen, let them see the dismantling of the tundrian as she undoes him — as she has always done.

she moves from him and the chill rushes to press against where the warmth of her lingers. as if bound to her by invisible chain, wintersbane ghosts towards her. oh, i will certainly beg, wintersbane rumbles; black, leathery nostrils flaring to take in the intoxicating scent of arousal. her's, his. it doesn't matter. but only to hear my name coaxed from you. in the most delicious of sounds and ways.

This waltz of wanting;
the tundrian thunders and kunnheku sunknives from the reaching of him; some wanton and whimsical warbling up waxen throat as she dances away away away, again again again; inciting, inviting; the bewitchment of her gaze glimmering up and into him, ever weaving just out of that carnal clutch; marred features write with some faux snarl of fascinated fervor.

But make no mistake, Andraste: I have chosen you—
flush made frost; lips part, lungs airless;
—to be the lovely dust from vich vill come my nation.

Always; always would the fée take such words to stuttering heart; and now prayed that when Wintersbane looked into argent halfsights he would be of a belief that the salted sheen was of mere longing, and not of all that she assumes has been lost to her and will remain so. For the snitch has been impoverished of her; and though she longs to ask of him if she is such dust; if he has ever thought of her belly all tendered with his northron brood; if she were loveless and unpromised and unenchanted and not so brokenhearted; instead,
"I fear that I would not have strength to,"  she instead murmurs; daring to flit nearer,  "for such a name is so very much for ze mouth, and I am so very weak,"  and so another name he must have! Another that perchance she would kneel all the more easier to.

Pressing closer, bartering her sorrows for some excuse of a smile; needing her sentinel to feel how unfortunately she quivered for him.

so sorry for busting in,, LMAO

Heading towards the borders of Courtfall, she meant to make her round of the territory for the day. But a scent had caught her nose, upon the breeze- nostrils flared, trying to draw the cool air in. Oh, a scent she would now know anywhere! That evil cat, a pale beast haunting the mountains they called home. And right within the Vale? Dangerous indeed... if the cat was as near as it seemed, it would be a threat to them all. 

Star's eyes fell towards her own skin, now littered with the presently healing wounds of battle. No, she would not risk it again. And certainly not to be caught alone. Star's first thought was to inform their leader, above all else- just to keep the core of the pack aware. Star had the mindset that the leaders of the pack were above all. Their safety came first and she would not let Andraste's blood be on her paws just because she did not bother to let the woman know. 

Luckily, it does not take long for her to seek the woman out. The pale wispy girl, her back marred with that mysterious frightening scar of origin unknown to Star. She catches the sight of her just a little down the slope and- oh?

Who is that dark man beside her? A little close for friends, they seemed. Looking upon for just an instant, Star felt her cheeks grow hot as she felt ashamed for stumbling upon what seemed to be a heated moment. And of her own leader- a woman who seemed so clear of conscience. She averted her dark eyes. And yet, she still wanted to share her message- shall she disturb the lovers? How awkward it would be... and yet, she decides, safety is of utmost importance. Certainly more important than pleasure. So, hoping Andraste doesn't snap at her, all the while keeping her eyes glued to the ground: "Andraste, I-" She stumbles, "I'm sorry to disturb you. I have information which might be important," She mumbled a bit awkwardly, refusing to look down at the pair.

the dance of teasing takes hold as she flits away and he draws nearer. wintersbane does not mind the game; instead reveling it as surely as his northern blood revels in the taste of war. love and war ...it was of the same vein was it not? she flits nearer, murmuring that she would not have the strength to; claiming instead that he should have another. another name to add to his collection? why not. at this point, wintersbane cannot imagine denying her anything and thus rasps, what would you call me? for surely, surely she has something in mind.

the sound of approaching footfalls does not go undetected by the tundrian, but he assumes that they will pass by. he is wrong; and while he doesn't give much of a damn if anyone sees how the fey queen has him wrapped 'round her paw the insistence of their audience nearly draws an annoyed what? from his lips ...but she does not speak to him; despite this his glacial gaze and attention falls upon her all the same with a slight roll of his eyes. while wintersbane is no one of importance he feels he has a right to know what is so goddamn important that they must be interrupted, that this news is so earth shattering that it cannot wait.

Had she known the esteemed assumption of his thoughts of namegiving, the impling might have been flattered; for though there is now a considering cant to the fine frostglim sculpture of her head, she ... does not yet have a name in mind for the hexed male before her. There were tales that must be told, if she is to make such an endeavor her own, is it not? He is storm and stress and she, sunknived; and that which breathes wiltingly to the shameful Star; scouring the arid throat:
"Belay such nonsense,"  admonishing featherlight; chords softer still; thin ear swiveling away and shaken with awaiting for what her matron so wished to deliver; nearing Wintersbane, regardless.  "What is of import, Mavroimë?"

Preying eyes remained studious of the unsettled gladiator; relishing in the drawn brow writ deep of vexation; the ever-irked, eddying heft of musculature beneath royal hide. Perhaps the preening of her cobwebbed lips at his breast would ease the suffering of such a stalemate — and perhaps it might only prime the precious places of him more. However, her insufferable, inconspicuous simper could be felt there, with all the doting daubbing;
and those insatiate eyes did not farewell from his embittered guise; or the recent remembrance of how he had entreated that he would plea for her; Andraste shivers,
and prays that her Mavroimë's message would be what would thwart what-ever ludicracy has laden itself upon her.

Andraste acknowledges her finally, asking the Mavroimë what was so important- so important to interrupt their little moment. Her gaze does not lift to look at them as she speaks once again, voice tense and awkward. "I've caught the scent of the cougar right within our Vale. I'm worried that it could be a threat if it's prowling through our lands- I worry for the young... like Clementine..."

Her voice trails off, but she picks up once again, "I do hate to disturb you. But I felt maybe it's best we ensure that filthy creature is gone from our lands," She sighs. No matter what happens now, it would be awkward, this she knew. She was no young thing but coming across a couple in a private moment would always be uncomfortable for her. Would Andraste follow her into the core of the territory to do a thorough check? Or would she insist on staying with that dark stranger who she seemed so attached to? The air would be tense either way. She only hoped that she had not just made herself into an enemy of the stranger by stealing away his precious fée. 

wintersbane grows ever more aggitated as the seconds pass with aching slowness, though his aggitation is deeply seeped in the fact that his loins ache for the fey queen who's lips preen at the silvery-blue mane of his chest; and there was the fact that he still wasn't quite sure if he was accepted into her ranks or not. the warlord tundrian and fey queen had grown ever distracted. a quiet rumble of want rumbles nearly muted in his broad chest, meant only for the fey queen, a quelling nip given to her ear.

it doesn't quell him nor his ever aching desire for her but ...it'd been worth a try.

a side-eye is given to the matron, glimpsing at her form over andraste's head as she speaks of cougar, and young and the wont to drive the beast from their lands for good. in a way, wintersbane understands and yet, selfishly, at the same time he wants the matron gone so they could finish what they've begun. the cougar obviously wasn't going anywhere and would be there when they were finished — and when, hopefully, wintersbane has a better idea of if she accepts him into her court.

The thrum of him threatens to unravel the remnants of scent that Andraste can scarce stave; and the nip is met with softscythe nick of her own to the ohtacárë's chin, as if to ward away the warmth of tonguetip and the catch of his teeth. The elder's recital all but falls upon ears deafened and dimmed to the suffocating unrest that has come to crowd the conscience that the Mavroimë had once favored so clearly in the little leader; and yet it was the word cougar and Clementine that had a snarl of ire flurry throughout the silvered snout;
so very little of the roseling she had seen, and there within her the stricken knows that she should have should have should have sent her striders to seek her out; that all of her sorrowing had been so selfish, gobbling at every cardinal choice no matter how keenly she had meant to stifle them. Argent halfsight meets the unyielding iron of the matron; faerie, shuddering  —  and she must not do this broke-winged thing.

The huntress departs;
and the boreal again returns herself to the nearness of Wintersbane, the steadying of the ache and their half-fragrance; gazes into the glacial eyes and muses, by way of proferring the more raw and reddened of her scars to the study of him,  "I endeavor to reap ze skin of this höllenkatz,"  (how dare she use his tongue, here!)  "But there is no accomplishing such if there are none I am able to enlist this for. I hope such a task is not so ... strenuous, Valitúrë?"

With the might of Aiolos, of Tundra — surely it would not be.

the pale matron departs then, her message delivered and hanging in the air, heavy and morbid between them. the enchantment of the moment has been shattered — like a stone cast to fragile glass. a sigh flutters, bitten back, in his chest, barred from making itself known even though there is a very slight rise and fall of his shoulders. i understand, wintersbane responds. a cougar was no idle threat. fevered passions can wait ...even if his body does not so readily agree with this particular thought. not so strenuous at all.