Northstar Vale running in the dark to find East of Eden

looking for @Andraste ♥

she sits motionlessly in the gloom, gaze cast upwards despite the heavy sky concealing her beloved luminous patterns. every now and then though, the chilling breeze would tear a gap in the ominous cloud cover and desperate shafts of broken silver would dapple the earth in fruitless dances before being quenched into darkness by the constant movement above. dissatisfied, she drops her head to gaze back towards the shadowed vale. her vantage point is towards the territory's edge for increased height more than anything. she enjoyed being able to look upon the expanse of her new home in one sweep of her gaze, and it certainly made her job much easier than if she was as blind as any threat who may decide to make a move on the sleepy haven.

her jaws widen in a yawn jawns yet it's more instinctive than anything, inside that restless energy buzzes throughout her entire vessel as if she's attached to an electrical current. ears lean back as a soft sigh is freed into the frigid air. she wishes to find andraste, the pallid woman who she'd pledged loyalty to. there is a deserving guilt present at her lack of communication and the valitúrë is sick of such pathetic wallowing. she was not one to sulk over childish wishes, dark eyes seem to grow even cooler as her jaw twitches. when had she grown so privileged? she had a home with good wolves where she was safe, how would faolan think to see her fret over such a thing because she wanted more. her heart clenches painfully. he'd be disgusted and rightfully so!

she must find the feathery fae and perhaps not only out of duty for it seemed upon discovering the strength of companionship; tundra had begun to seek it. she wasn't as content as she may once have been to maintain the role of the ghost who drifted solemnly along the borders, no, as much as she cursed it, tundra wanted to belong. how it made her inwardly cringe to admit it as the thoughts of what sharp chides she would've once received for such a wish plague her in response. 

she shifts her position slightly yet remains leaned back on her haunches; tomorrow. it was too late to drag any from the blissful land of sleep, she would just have to wait.

Andraste did not know what sort of night this was;
for she did not shiver awake, shadows prancing before her very eyes with the slosh of springwater in her lungs; did not see the face of the male she lie with shift dark into another, and another still. She did not rouse with tears clung to lashes and lips parted with weak embittered, gauzy-gazed and nigh senseless mouthings; did not sniffle through stupid, stinging nose at all mem'ry she only wished had not ever been; did not weep tears of mad, molten melancholy with throat choked with myriad curses. She did not writhe upon her shoulders, nor claw accursed to cavern trestles; did not wend herself within her warlord's arms, press nearer to him as she now oft might. No;
but she rose quiet all the same, and trendil'd her way through the arteries from her Rest, to the thrumming amphitheater of Cuivénen; farther, further, with sleepless sighs til the witnerbit world plied shorn features with touches of frost.

She only wishes she were without thought;
but upon sighting an insomnolent Valitúrë, thought is all that crowds her mind and the fée can find no words to thus speak  —  so, she settles for silence, and eventually comes to rest alongside Tundra.

bad short post time

and through the parting of cirrus twistings of roving mist the sylph drifted forth as if summoned from thoughts that had not even reached charcoal lips. tenebrous gaze seeks to rest upon the achromatic shards of her newfound companion as silent grace guides idle steps to rest her svelte figure by her side. her heart flutters with the rush of words she sought to, no she must speak and yet in that moment the idea of breaking such tranquil silences seems like a crime in itself so asides the softest of inhales; the spectre holds her tongue. 

there is something so ethereal about the energy to shiver at her side that she finds herself more of a damned wraith than ever when subjected to such angelic auras from her undómiel. tender claws stroke whispers throughout velveteen ears as muscles shift to face sloe eyed features upon the pallid woman. softly searching, she finds herself humbly able to admit the appeal to reside under such a force is not artificial in nature. despite former misgivings at the fae's idea of strength, she bemusedly notices how the touch of her soft utterings was enough to cause the swoons of her followers and was that not enough when one had the nerfarious valitúrë prowling at her sides. 

veiled orbs cast out across the shadowed hollow before creeping back to finally let loose smoothly slithered words; "what is it that steals you from the blissful art of sleep, undómiel?"

ur good lmao but me2. tiny,,

There was much that had been stolen from her in the hours that she could have slept so; why ever had she whisked herself from her thief's possession? Her mind slumped over on itself at the perhaps of ...  “To breathe,”  Undómiel lilts simply, eyes languid and listing back down the path she'd tread to Tundra. To remember that my body is my own, naturally  –  nevermind his commands.  “Ze airs of Cuivénen tend to become a bit ... stifling, after a time.”

This was the skinship she remembered but had next to no opportunity of: female-talk, and laughter, and the gentle teasing about life and love. But, then, her oak-eyed Valitúrë might be averse to such vague vulgarities; and so the fairylight  tucks away the alternative of roaming 'round whichever way through her Court, should things traipse into stilted silence.

Sculptor's halfsights return to their study of the Vale, awaiting and not.