Northstar Vale you've made a pig's ear

The nod of an engrossed investor; fatigue an eight-pronged thing weighing upon rubied crown with tines pressing aches into the more quilted fragments of her mind; perhaps, in time, broke-winged worries might ask to only join the sewing circle in the chamber’d breast of this wanderess, share a word, spare three, but for now for now for now:
the girlish, gullible eyes  (widened and worn by some far too wakeful edge)  blink through the severance of her soul, far too limned with fog to take note of all manner of flaws that pockmark the vagrant’s features, voice. Her own, a foreign, despondent Romantic drawl, would have been melodic  —  if not for the stumbling syllables of nonrepose:  “Lost? There is no reasons to be sorry, lost,”  marred brow writ with perplexity. The fée might not have so gladly agreed to such falsity; might have seen through such thin veils and, yet, she did not wish to see;
she did not wish to think, or believe, and had pitched herself adamant into the hours of dawn, all in the hopes that it would whittle her away into something dreamless and delightful to the chasm within her contused heart.

That this waif might hew into her with fang; chitter past and pillage one of those very caches; all possibility and pretense of such ever occurring went thus unheeded by tipsy-tired starlit. She, who only raised snowshoe paw, as if to step nearer ... but wobbled, thought better of it, and withdrew all meaning-to. Instead  (insistent with a perhaps-we-can-help tone):  “What is it that you are ... lookings for?”