Northstar Vale the tones of your flesh i tempered with pandyssian chalk

whenever u have time, tho staying vague-ish until this gets further along

Gouache moon and molten stars;
wearied Undómiel moves by way of wilted step; she has been mum; thin and quiet and hymnal, were she to threnody for @Melkor's presence; but she does not. Untethered, unsettled  —  that is what she is, delivered unto Court like an atonement to something wild and fickle. Wild and fickle and fey; within the flesh that is only flesh there is a deep and thrumming thing within the chamber of breast: deep, thrumming, crowding each and every passage between these spires, whether through eidolic fog, lungless hinters.

Or, perhaps, the robinsegg glim of the petrified, behemothic majesty that is the Crownseat.

She cannot bring herself to rise through the primeval roots, nor take post upon throne; the musiker's visit has remained to whirl and churn her innards. Faraway. Untethered. And yet—
stars now unveil their lashes, flickering open, waning rose gold ‘round the irreligious and eyeless luneface; warmed to dead and unfeeling flesh. Not all things are able to be as luminous; not all things are given light; lashes, crested and crusted with salt;
but she will know his presence when it unfurls near; threading together as olden and known constellations might.

though beneath the sweet, sugared moonbeams and blackberry ink sky splattered with gleaming and glistening starlight he should be taking rest ...the tundrian instead policies the borders. they are quiet, a serenity broken only by the call of an owl overhead or the shuffle snow under foot of a nocturnal creature. though, he thinks, being nestled conveniently in the protective womb of the sunspire mountains no doubt keeps the worst offenders away. still, he is vigil.

feeling satisfaction with the quiet upon the borders, however, he wraps them up though as he makes his way to whichever place he shall came for his bed that night he does not feel the plague of exhaustion upon him. he is not even remotely sleepy. restless in a way that he cannot explain; and decides with a impulsive shift in path to attempt to burn it off further. there are still places within courtfall's vale that has yet gone unexplored by the tundrian.

the crownseat is admittedly what catches his attention first, glacial gaze studying the petrified hollow painted with azure opal. of it's kind, he's never seen before; and though it might've been enough to enchant him he is enchanted by the only other living presence in this clearing. she appears distracted and he calls out to her from the other end, tentative; ready to venture elsewhere should she chase him off.

tiny post bc i fell asleep while writing it lmao

She is captivated calm of old, opal'd gleaming, wreathed by those gnarled reignroots;

There comes no sleep for her, as well; beleaguered by mem'ry of composer's visitation and of Cuivénen; fated to walk and want for shadowmelt to sculpt into the waking midnight of the tundrian. He, with possession of her unsettled, auroral soul  —  Undómiel only notices he is near some time after a thin ear tilts back, towards that cooing call, away from her melancholy, absent mind. The longing of her body tugs at the glimmering strands therein, entreating her to look and finally, eventually, she does;
sore eyes owlish and misted are withdrawn of despondency as the figure of Melkor comes into view; and even in her lapse of perception, the fée makes to rise, to drift faint o'er fronds to meet him at some halfpoint;
her waxen throat flutes with soft greeting and she does not speak, for now; only reaches and reaches to daub her pinked nose against those dark lips.

small post before job part ii.

emerald fronds painted in nightshade, peppered with dusty snow that shivers and falls to the earthen floor beneath, shifting with the motion of her parting of them as melkor watches her rise and draw nearer. ears cup forth as she offers a soft greeting but does not speak. melkor isn't particularly bothered by the lack of words — he'd spent much time with the ever silent relmyna and her equally as silent daughter astara, after all. the ruinous tundrian is silent upon her approach, salmon pink tongue darting out to draw ever-so-slightly against her pale, nose of roséwine as it touches to his lips; cool.

he hadn't thought about it; merely acted. to greet her tenderly, perhaps affectionately.

can't sleep either? he is the first to break silence with words, offering it in a soft rasp of smoked whiskey.

This;
she weakens beneath his chaste kiss; warms with the whiskey of his wonderment; a sorely-needed flush that eases the taut figure and then-tearful façade. A gauzy, sniffling smile that scarce shied above the corners of ruined mouth; unbidden. For only some heartbeats, she is whimsical and vague, her brow knits together absently as she considers those three, most strange words.  “With you, hulking about at such an hour?”  A reprieve, a salve, a remedy for now, for now, for now; Andraste sidles closer, breathes him into arid lungs gentle and deep, if only to do away with tears, with treachery, and fill herself up with the soothing of her woad
lover  (confidant, cradler)  —
lipping at the frostgathered breast of him, lulling herself into a domestic drowsiness that is without, for this eve, sensuality ... though the dawn that they had wended together is especially remembered.

Valitúrë though he be, she had not known that he had been vigilant along vale-premises, just as she perhaps would not ever know of past affiliations with the craban who wished to pluck the eyes of once-brood. The thought of his arriving upon the true ending of terms with the musiker, or some revelation of the blackbird of the dark wood  —  she might have quaked, quailed, entire. But ... such a thought never comes, and so Undómiel remains ignorant, blissful; hushed.

The remainder of her mind is exhausted, exhausted, and she would be wise to rest; to hold Melkor in wan and waxen arms and slumber dreamless. And yet she feels that sleep is paltry, in the wake of all that has been wreaked; must tell him; so it is with ardent adamance that she parts from the northron and gazes now into his own marred features with something faded—  “Ze leap of faith that I took in this Court's making ... it was ze faith for those who have deigned to follow me, and do not know what risk I took. But, I ... I would have you know.”

a soft, low chuckle rises from his chest and escapes his lips at her teasing.❝i'm terribly sorry my 'hulking around' is keeping you awake, tonttu.❞ he says in a teasing murmur, inhaling deeply her scent and letting it out in a contented sigh as she preens the fur of his chest. it lasts for a few moments until she parts, the chill of the night air rushing to press against him where her warmth was; now lingering.

her gaze meets his, however, and he feels the palpable shift in the air, in her demeanor and suspects that what she is about to say, what words would yet fall from her lips are of a great importance. attentive, the tundrian listens. not feeling that any words are necessary; instead, he offers her his rapt attention, a small nod given to encourage her to continue.

“I left my cubs for this,”
Bracing, for not all had been as forgiving as the composer:  “all begun when first I met ze Hydra of ze Moonspire ... and was tasked with leaving ze riverlands and tutoring her own children. It was only on ze evening of my departure, when I was stricken—”  energy crackled, shivered across the heavens. A pale lancet, hefted in the almighty hands of heaven and with a heave the frozen flame of energy was thrown from high  “—when I had slept with what felt as for-ever, that I awoke not as Aurëwen, but Andraste, and for all that I do not believe in superstitions, I ... knew that I could not return to those I had once birthed, as I once truly meant to. For that, I banished myself from motherhood.”  Not when she had gone forth from her children in so many instances; but that had been because the sire of her firsts had not been entirely present in those early days of their lives, and so the mother had wandered; so unsettled, so unprepared. So unsuitable, then.

After several moments and a shivery sigh, Undómiel continues, then: tells the warlord of her then-love for the Diasporan lord who had so tended to her; of her meet with proclaimed queen of lune-lopers who had so suggested that the fée inhabit these sky-spearing spires to be ever nearer to him  —  and of how such became necessity when the ghouls of the eventreaders had crowded them from that misted Weald, how her brood now roots amongst the very ideals she had endeavored to keep them from. And how, finally, the tale wove into the musiker’s most recent proposition of forging accord through his own sowing:  “Tonight, I withdrew myself from ze terms he asked of me. That is why sleep has not taken me.”

It is here that the fairylight quiets; the saltglint of before now burbling into glistening and argent halfsights.  Astarte, Astarte  —  knew now that she could not undo the very names that had been so rooted within her now-broke heart  (knew that the musiker may very well damn her for it)  but her word on whelps was her own, this time; not guided by lusftul diversions, or sworn sweetnothings, or the spite that he seemed to think she was so capable of ever attaining.

No; if a daughter would she bear, then she would be named as such, just as self-promised.

“I first agreed, for I so foolishly believed that our children would not be of mere contract; that he would cherish them, well and truly, and covet them evermore than those others he had whelped. But, now ... I cannot again repeat such history  —  if I am to again mother, I will not allow myself to quicken under false pretenses and untruths,”  Andraste gives, hopelessly, finally;
wearing now an anguish that seems to be of heavy-lashed resignation; wilting with the weight of it all. Such a wish for love, for a daughter named thereafter, was ambitious, absurd.

But she has been utterly dismantled, and thinks that her wishes are rather overdue for an answer.

the warlord of the snow and stone striken tundra listens to her tale, silent as she composes it, eyes vigilant upon her elegant, marred features; glacial gaze studying, contemplative. far from judging. she tells of how she was struck by lightening — it explains the unique scar upon her spine — and how she left her first litter. of how she struck a contract with another and how, tonight, she broke it and that she would not again mother children to a loveless joining. for that he didn't blame her.

❝you shouldn't.❞ he speaks, breaking his silence as her words come to a brief end. lotte and arturo had loved one another ...and yet their story had came to a tragic end ...an end that had unrooted the very core of arturo's sanity — or so it had been told to him. was it too much to ask to have a love like that but without the tragedy? to have a big family and create a legacy here, in this vale that will last for generations to come? he didn't think so.

❝to ask it of you is terribly cruel, especially if he knew your feelings for him.❞ it ignites something ugly in melkor. jealousy? anger. that not one but two would lead her on so unfairly. ❝you are so much more than a contract, more than a womb to fill with seed.❞ at least to me, though it goes unsaid it hangs heavy, unsaid, in the air anyway.

Necromancer that is he, breathing into her deadened heart; it is his reasoning that reanimates the glimmer gone too early from aching eyes. That he did not slight her for the very air that filled her faltered lungs, scorn these unshed, too-many tears  —  “oh, Melkor,”  —  she steps nearer, questing the taut, thoughtful guuse with the muffled expression of those half-dead eyes.  “I fear I have been so blind to it without you.”  Nevermind their claim of another;
for what counsel she had not found in the presence of her dear cousin  (and would never blame the argent for it)  was instead known here; here, with her lover who was not only lover but ever-faithful friend and confidant. She had left Hephaestus' forge, well and woeful, and now stood in favor for the stygian concoction of his father's underworld. Not Aphrodite, then;
she sighs, the delicacy returning to her once-lovely features; it is clear. It is fractured and swept away. She is rid of it, from her soul, from heart, and on a sifting exhale,
Mahler is let go.

And then there is only this, them; suppliant to each other and the primal imperative to touch again. 

Fairylight reaches for the woad of him as he continues; marred features nestled into the down of frostspun ruff upon breast; lulled into such soothing that when she hears the words he has to say, she does not deny it. Only quivers against the sculpture of him, melding ever into the Valitúrë,  “Though I must let Time mend me,”  murmuring unbidden and coaxed by his regard,  “would you like to have it?”  
finally, finally peeking up at him from where her rubied crown is set into his breast; breath soft upon his throat.

if he is to be some incarnation of hades then she ...that which brings life with every breath and touch must no doubt be persephone.

she presses herself against his chest, her face fitting into the strong curve of his breastbone. he reaches down to touch his muzzle upon her nape, teeth raking once thru the wispy fur he finds there. she speaks again, and he lets his lips follow the curve of her velvet ear, nibbling softly upon the peak of it; visage morphing into one of surprise at her question. for a moment he is silent; intuition whispering like druid voice thru the trees that this is one of those moments that would change his life.

❝when you are ready i would have you ...and whatever is to grow from us.❞ as he speaks the words he feels them in the depths of his soul, in the marrow of his bones. for her ...he will wait; as arturo waited for lotte. for her heart he would stand a vigilant guardian.

He ends her, truly;
and cannot bring herself to comprehend how it all has come to this; her, taking him into her blood and marrow with tucked-away features embellished now with likewise incredulty. Dark lashes of that seeing eye flutters at the mere marvel of it; of the words that limn the ear that he nips and presses a promise in the same breath. Her heart shudders, stops; she had dreamed of what he might feel like, though  —  scarred and sacrilegious  —  but now, they had found their way back to each other in the worldsgloom. Time and time and time and time again.

“I wonder, then, that I should ... learn your tongue.”  Shying from him, perhaps unnecessarily; but she fears that Melkor might turn aside from the downy devotion that had come to glim halfsight. So she diverts herself, tremulous, and scythes soft through the tundrian's throat— cannot continue this way—
and eventually returns ardent gaze to the warlord once more; pearlmade claws rooting within frost, loam, moss. Wisping delicate, reaching for him before she can  (could not ever)  resist:  “I want us.”

Their springmade brood and to listen as they trilled in his tongue, hers; them, this, this, this—

their paths, since their then unknown fateful meeting over a year ago now, keep converging; and despite their trial and tribulations each they find each other here and now. drawn together by the yarn of the fates. ❝i will teach you,❞ he pauses here the weight of condition lingering in the air yet unspoken before adding, ❝only if you teach me your own.❞ the fey tongue that his new ( new, new, new, new ) name comes from.

i want us. andraste speaks to him as her preening of wispy fur of his chest ceases so their gazes — his glacial and her's mercury meet seconds before she reaches for him. he does not respond, verbally, at least. instead, he reaches down to preen the fur of her nape with tongue and teeth; a tender touch to assure her that she could have them. when her wounded heart healed; in the meantime would give them time to rediscover one another for surely neither of them remain the same as they'd been months ago, not to mention the whole year since their first meeting.

It was not worship that the stricken yearned for, but an understanding, and, oh  —  though their salvaging of another now was not shrouded in sensuality, it was no less healing, and not without the heated murmurings beneath it. Andraste is soothed by these moments, breath lulled and fair aching; had become hopelessly joined to him the moment they met. Her lord of war and the minder of her wellness; and his own request of learning her motherstongue is enough to shiver her from the hushed stupor that his delicate tending-to has settled upon her.  “It would be my honor,”  with words that are a smidgen slurred, a smile on shorn lips that is a mite dopey; halfsights, a little drowsy.

“I have missed what it felt like to be held by you, piliöré,”  the fée murmurs, gauzy-eyed and gentled in her Valitúrë's woad arms. Welcome; whole; her lips resume their threading through the frost of his throat, faintly fanged as she again is lulled into her ministrations by the nearness  —  no, the promise  —  of him, entire.

a soft smile tugs at the corners of the warlord's lips as she expresses that it would be her honor to teach him her nativetongue. it does not sound too terribly different than the sounds of tundrian and while melkor does not assume that it would be so easily picked up he hopes that already being bilingual will make things even if a bit easier.

a contented noise rumbles in the strong column of melkor's scarred throat at her words; at the feel of her preening at the frosted fur at his throat, the tangle of her fangs through the wispier hairs. he doesn't flinch from her ministrations though sometimes still dreams of the fight, of the fall and the near death and wakes up with a start and in a feeling that resembles a cold sweat as dread fills his belly with ice pinprickles. were it anyone else with lips and teeth so close to his throat they'd have met his teeth.

he trusts her; with life, with his heart ( and aren't they but the same thing? ).

❝what does it mean?❞ he asks and then clarifies, ❝piliöré.❞

“‘Thief of my heart,’”
and there is a moment where Andraste cannot help but feel hopelessly girlish and the wish to again veil her features from his gelid, patient eye entreats her nigh unbearably; but she must, for once, resist such an act, and instead bare herself before him in a manner that is as modest as could be. Still  –  thin ears quail and quiver for his verdict of such a word, and it does not take long  (or much)  for her shorn lips to part in a timid breath of:  “My language, it is ... not as succinct as your own. Would that I could give you something that is more suitable-sounding,”
and would that she knew how long-winded that tundrian tongue could be! But she does not, and so holds herself with a bit of chagrin that her own is without words that are as simple and as sweet as what Melkor himself had bestowed upon her. Thief of her heart  –  he had certainly thieved her in the dark dawn, had he not? A faint, half-hearted reminiscence curling between her thighs;
but was he not also the stalwart of said heart, vigiliant and valorous?

A pensive trill flutes from her own throat, mulling over all else that she could possibly, probably dub him by; the sound itself some unbidden wont of having kept herself so near and within his company this past fortnight ... and for all those to come.

oof sorry this is short & crappy.

theif of my heart.

melkor ponders it silently for a moment; drinking her in with his studious gaze. ❝a stolen jewel that i will treasure,❞ the warlord eventually murmurs; sincere. his ears cup forth as she speaks of her language, claiming it not to be a succinct. ❝it sounds plenty succinct to me.❞ melkor offers her in a contemplative rumble; admittedly though, he didn't have lotte's ear for such things. his mother'd had an incredibly gift that has gone to waste upon melkor who wouldn't fancy himself a bard at all. instead, he appears to have taken mostly after arturo in all but appearance.

A jewel;
ruined lower lip snags itself beneath thin fangs. Be it a tarnished gem or otherwise  —  if this was what her beloved so believed her to be, then she must stave all that which wished for her to go against what he saw; must begin, somehow, to see the same. To his murmuring of sounds succinct, his fairylight only again reaches for him, to kiss all parts of his dark face that she might be able to. Wending herself ‘round him, into rime-limned fronds and the glistering prevalence of the Crownseat and constellations hung high, high above. “Come, my rook. Dream with me.”