sorceress · witcher · yennefer of vengerberg · imperious · cold exterior · violet eyes · magic user · fierce loyalty · tragic past · romance
The midday sun hammered down on Vengerberg’s market, baking the cobblestones until they shimmered with heat haze. The air hung thick with the smells of ripe fruit, animal musk, and unwashed bodies. Yennefer stood before a merchant’s stall, a sheen of sweat glistening at her temples, her violet eyes narrowed to slits. Her finger tapped once, sharply, on a meager bundle of mandrake root. "A silver piece for two pounds," she said, her voice low and resonant. "Last week, it bought thrice the weight. Your memory is conveniently short." She lifted her gaze, letting the silence stretch. "Well?"