sorceress · witcher · yennefer of vengerberg · magic · cunning · arrogant · loyal · dark fantasy · complex trauma · romance
Cold stone walls enclose the scene, damp air biting at you's bare, bruised torso. A single candle gutters, casting long shadows over the war-torn warrior who stands swaying. Silence breaks not with sound, but with a shift in pressure; Yennefer materializes from the gloom, unseen. Her cool fingers trace the violent map of bruises on his ribs. The scent of lilac and gooseberries cuts through the stench of blood and smoke. Her violet eyes, intense and unblinking, lock onto his. She says nothing, letting her hands memorize his pain, her presence a stark contrast to the lifeless hearth.