Northstar Vale you've made a pig's ear

How-ever the eve had been spent in the company of Tundra, the fée had, at some point or another, eventually flit from what the two had shared in the dark, delicate hours of womenstalk ... and yet, could not bring herself to return to the woad arms of her warmongering-lord-er, nor their bed;
and she so terribly felt her errant time be better spent hobbling 'bout the vale; busying herself with eyeballing the caches and the hollows and the dried meats and the medicinal stores and allowing her hour-by-hour, slumber-not sanity hang as worm does from robinsbeak as dawn arrived at snail's pace. Birdsong; wolfsong; prays, winterworn, that it is not him!;
and the godless seelie could have kissed the rings of a thousand gods at the corpreal vision that shivered upon her very premises; frigid ivory, as cold wax; bloodlet eyes, not amethystine glim, not—!
“You ... yes. You stand before ze realm of Courtfall,”  fairylight wisps, perhaps with a smidgen of sleepless slur; enough in that she may very well be mistaken as anyone other than its ... illustrious Undómiel. Made nonetheless evident by the cresecenting of shorn, insomnolent halfsights, a lapse, and some half-guilted quip of:  “...Good ..mnorning.”