𝙎𝙝𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨. Ugh — all that remains in her hearth is ash. She refuses to go outside for fresh firewood as she would surely catch her death. Where is Geralt when she needs him?

A touch of red to celebrate the long awaited conclusion of this week. The fainting couch in the gardens beckons; she intends to not lift a finger the coming few days.

Dressed in nightgown and with teacup in hand, Yennefer leans against the balustrade on the terrace. The duchy was yet to awaken; so serene, only the babbling of the stream and chirping of cicadas echoes. Her gaze locks upon the mountainous horizon, watching the sun's ascent.

⠀⠀⠀It seems she is accompanied by naught but an icy morning and an empty decanter smelling 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦 of apple juice. How woefully disappointing.

She’s glad he approves of her choice of colour . . . considering it isn’t entirely transfer proof.

you’ll never bleed like me.

bloodlust brought out the violets in her eyes, no kill’s cleaner than her vice.

what rage you must feel as you choke on your sorrow.

i have survived， but i have not been spared.

Veritable relief flickered past her features, briefly smothering the vexed impatience that burned behind her eyes. ⠀⠀⠀❛ Took you long enough, witcher. Be quick, warm me before I begin losing extremities to this accursed cold. ❜ Yen said, voice equally commanding and fond.

⛤ ‘ 𝖑𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒚𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒓.

you found humanity? / i found meaning.