𝒜straea

It was, as it had been countless times before, another period of uncertainty for those across the continent, each kingdom brimming with concern for their own health and prosperity as the beginnings of war begun to brew, biting at their heels with weighted questions that demanded answers and effortlessly ignited fear into the hearts of those that watched on with barely bitten back trepidation. Who could have predicted yet another turn of events that could, once more, leave thousands struck by poverty as they are forced to remain upon war-torn lands that had barely begun to recuperate after the last?

Only months ago had the whispers begun, spreading the secrets regarding the conflict that was rising between the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardian Empire. It was, simply, the same story written in that of another font and with the blood of those caught between the desire to rule, conquer what was not their own.

Realisation on the severity of the situation had settled in the horizon’s once sightings of troops commencing the inevitable structure of battle stations begun to be seen across both realms, the worry of the people soon finding it’s way to the advisors of the courts. Concern had begun to bubble over and had, ever so obviously, reached that of a breaking point as a rare gathering of magical factions was commenced and lead them to this … moment.

On one hand held the number of times that the Sorceress of Gors Velen had visited the infamous establishment of Aretuza, each experience causing the woman’s opinions to sour regarding their ridiculous outlook on life in general but the standards they had set that held them back in comparison to institutions they existed beside.

Each faction had promptly arrived at the decision to call upon their greatest and brightest graduates to be present, those that outshone their peers in some way, shape or form and had, for appropriate and respectful reasons, made a name for themselves whether it was for talent or intelligence, and was known to hold their own in times of great stress and danger. Uncertain times called for those that could pull them out of it and not worsen the damage that was threatening to fall on them all.

Amara Isolda, somehow, found herself here, amongst her fellow graduates of Rissberg, old and now, in the midst of tension that could be cut with the dullest of blades and little effort. 

She had expected to see a few familiar faces in the midst of the crowd, Yennefer of Vengerberg, for an example, talented in her own right and intelligent as they could come, the savior of hundreds, if not thousands of lives for her sacrifice at Sodden and her fiery-haired friend, also known for her talent and valour in times of need for those that required it.

Isolda had chosen to linger, existing behind the crowds as they waited for the last few that were required to arrive for the beginning of this gathering to truly comment, the Temerian not overly interested in either options of divulging in a short, meaningless conversation or twisting through crowds in search for old companions for a short and perhaps tense greetings.

Back to the point at hand, however. War. Yes, of course this was a not so new arising problem that had Aretuza as well as the other factions worried. That worry and ever hovering fear is the unknown called for a meeting between all schools and their best mentees. The werewitch has to wonder if she would’ve been invited before today were she not a rectoress. She always did doubt her own magical abilities and no amount of grown up has eased such doubts all the way. Though she is far more confident in many things, experience aiding in that.

Where was she? Ah, the meeting that had been called. She could head bodies piling in, in the strategy room from her office with her enhanced hearing. She sat there for a good while before deciding to head over when arrivals began to slow down. She had no idea who to expect though the knowledge of Rissberg had her thinking of Amara. It always did even though now she knew more than one sorceress from it, having to deal with a few in her new position. Despite thinking of the raven haired sorceress who once owned her whole heart and was more or less the center of the wolf’s universe, Astraea wasn’t expecting to see her.

Walking to the grand doors, the werewitch steps in with confidence, watching first where she stepped before raising her gaze.

It was almost ludicrous to think of how many times such events had held her presence, how often they arose to calm the unnecessary tantrum that was thrown by childish sovereigns in an attempt to gain one of their desires or to make a point that was, inevitably, pointless.

Amara was old, perhaps even ancient in the eyes of those that surrounded her. She was, sadly enough, just that, only a few leagues behind that of Philippa Eilhart but her age, in this moment, served to prove a statement that so many wouldn’t realise until they were far into their first century, conflicts would not be solved unless the creators truly wanted it to be resolved.

Curiosity held her here more than duty, desiring to see the answers that her fellow Sorcerers and Sorceresses would arrive at in this current decade.

Alas, her concentration had been broken, torn from her thoughts regarding the latest tensions to tend to the weighted gaze that had settled upon her and caused her heart to seize with unbridled emotion that could be caused by only two people across the entire continent and her body to fall victim to unforgiving flames that scorched, reminded her of touches that were now absence, that of memories. Amara, similar to Astraea, didn’t need to search, gaze immediately seeking the woman responsible in only a matter of seconds and their gazes locking in a passionate embrace that’d left the older woman ever so breathless and suffering from an increase in tempo of her heart, variegated hues dancing with emotions. Astraea, all in the one moment, looked as if she hadn’t changed a single inch but had changed completely.

Her steps had been slow, brimming with uncertainly before growing meticulous as the Sorceress of Gors Velen discovered her courage and chose to approach. Was it not right to approach, and see the woman that had once held her heart? See the opposite after decades of separations that only held chance meetings that had no time for conversation as their duties caused them to continue on.

What will be said? What will happen? Not much conversation will be able to be had once the meeting begins but even being next to the raven haired woman served to strip away any of her armor. She takes a deep breath and stills herself right as the sorceress arrives and utters her name.

She was breathless and burning, worn fingers aching unforgivingly with the need to fidget, dance away the nerves that had begun to rise alongside that of the tempo her heart was racing with, and that, they had achieved, fiddling mindlessly with the delicate bracelet that clung to her slim, pale wrist. Astraea was one of the few that held the ability to crack Amara’s, otherwise, unbothered complexion, coaxing out emotions that rarely saw the light of day.

“Me too.” It was admitted in that of a mere whisper, gaze tumbling to focus upon their feet ever so fleetingly before variegated spherules lifted to the beauteous that belonged to the woman that still owned so very much of her heart, haunted it, in fact. “I suppose they require all sorts, even me, yes?”

What was there to say? What was there to do? So much could be said, done and yet, silence only dared to creak.

Amara was struggling with the desire to wrap the younger woman up in her arms in that of a tender embrace. There was a moment of clear uncertainty that was passing across her fair features, the lower of courteously painted brims taken in between her teeth and bitten as her heart and mind fought callously until the Temerian simply chose to do just as her body asked and embraced the woman in a simple but near bone-breaking hug. 

Even now, she can feel her heart pound so fast within her chest. But if it thought it was beating fast then, then she doesn’t know what the hell to call what her heart was doing now. The second that the Gors Velen sorceress wraps her in a tight embrace, she swears that her heart pounding away at her chest so quickly it could make her buzz. For a good second, the wolf doesn’t know what to do with herself or her hands. However after a moment, the werewitch lets her arms wrap around Amara.

It wasn’t that the Sorceress thought of herself as incompetent or inept when it came to her talents or intelligence, in fact, Amara was thoroughly aware of just how talented she was and how fortunate that made her but… She was, after all, someone who gained their training from an institution that the long-disbanded brotherhood disagreed with and had passionately disputed, leaving their name slandered even when it did not deserve it. 

“You mean the likes of the remaining members of the brotherhood want those with a background in regards to Rissberg for purposes other than using their unconventional methods and placing blame once backlash begins?” Whilst it had rung true, the woman had spoken with surprising playfulness, something gained with her prolonged years. 

“Yes that is exactly what I mean” replies the werewitch in turn. “We know half of these men are useless, most are blinded by ego and ambition. All try to compensate for something and always end up falling short. Which is why they ask for help yet not so directly, they call meetings like these so we all pitch in ideas they can take the glory for.” Once upon a time Astraea would’ve never voiced this. In fact she would’ve tried to look for the positives and sometimes she still does but it was evident she had done a lot of growing up.

And there was so much a werewolf that was also a witch could do. Aretuza offered her safety.

Silence had fallen upon the women, the older woman appearing to be in thought as her brows lowered and the flesh of her lips, once motionless, had begun to purse. “You are here.” It was a simple statement yet was weighted, accompanied by that of a knowing lilt as if Amara knew that a change was bound to occur. “This time, history shall not be the same, a new story for bards and history books across the continent.”

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.

“You have too much faith in me” she says quietly, swallowing thickly and licking her lips. “You always have,” the wolf turns her head slightly to look at Amara, viridescent hues studying the pale complexion of her once beloved. Still continues to be, if she was being honest. “I couldn’t possibly do much to change years of history.”

“Hmm I don’t think you’ve change much. I still see that fire in your eyes, the mischief” she says with a knowing smirks. It was a tender one. It morphs into a soft, gentle smile, nodding at the answer. She hasn’t visit Gors Velen in years, sadly. The rectoress only had the memories she carried with her of her time there.

Astraea laughs quietly, shaking her head. “I did not say you have little faith. I said you have 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 faith” the wolf says with a quirk brow. Though there was also a faint blush upon her cheeks. Fortunately — or perhaps unfortunately for them all — the meeting seems to adjourn. Everyone starts to file out but Astraea hovers for a moment, chewing gently on her bottom lip. She wants more time.

Such a fickle thing, was it not? It was potent enough to build a society or send one into ruins, and if one was fortunate enough to live, one had experienced it. Astraea’s introduction, and presence into Amara’s lift had returned her faith to some extent, allowing the Sorceress of Gors Velen to live without the bitter perspective that was often lying beneath the surface, without the hopefulness that often tried to cling, to burden. 

She had slowly turned, letting the weight of her gaze settle to quietly observe the woman before her with increasingly tender features, a distant look gliding across her sapphire hues. “You gave me something to be faithful in, an act that very few can do.” It brought life back to my bones. Words, once more, that had been left unspoken. 

“Sadly, that is something that cannot be change. In me, it was built to withstand time. Not even the those pesky, irksome witch-hunters can force the ire from my bones.” No. It simply couldn’t change. The Church of the Eternal Fire possessed talented machines of torture but even they failed to remove that fire that was buried beneath, that mischief that never seemed to leave.

A smile settles on her lips at the words and she hums softly. “I’m glad that nothing is capable of extinguishing that fire. Is one of the things I love about you.” She wished to turn and caress a pale cheek while telling her that. She does let herself look upon the sorceress from Gors Velen once more and this time she remains looking at her.

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗮 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂. She wanted to voice but instead thinks it. If Amara were to read her thoughts in that moment well —. The wolf smiles and turns, silently beginning to exit the room and lead them down the halls of Aretuza until they are at her office. It was marvel stones, bookshelves full of books and scrolls and artifacts. Two loveseats face each other in the middle and towards the back of the room is a desk, two chairs on the outside and a singular one behind the desk at the corner there was a small liquor cabinet that she heads to. “Make yourself comfortable” she says, grabbing to goblets and nice bottle of Chateau d’Adam Chevalier Pinot Blac Reserve.

As they make their way down the halls, she swears she can feel the woman’s gaze on her. A light smirk stretches upon her lips and she adds a sway her hips to make it more — enticing for the woman. Entering her office, the wolf hums softly as the sorceress from Gors Velen thanks her. With a small flick of her wrist and wave of her fingers the door closes behind them and leaves them with privacy. Astraea takes her seat by Amara, slightly closer than necessary and crosses her legs while her body faces that of the other woman’s. She gives the raven haired sorceress her glass of wine and cradles hers, leaning back against the couch. Her hand rests across the back of the couch. “No, I very much still enjoy a good ale” she says with a soft chuckle. “I thought perhaps you’d enjoy a nice wine though” she murmurs, gently, rotating her ankle.

There was something so utterly and completely charming, enthralling about observing Astraea use her magic and with such ease, such comfort. It had left the Sorceress of Gors Velen entranced, fascinated at a sight that she rarely seen across the duration of their relationship and her gaze remained steadfast, watching in silence as the younger woman moved about. Inhaling leisurely, Amara cast her concentration to Astraea’s study and the items that filled it, taking in the woman’s personality and feeling as if there was a weight momentarily lifted from her chest. To be here, back in the Sorceress of Novigrad’s presence and the items that held her individuality was a relief and allowed Amara to breathe with such ease that hadn’t been felt for years, without the tension that usually grips unforgivingly at her body. “I suppose it’ll be a welcomed change…” Nilfgaard practically thrived on the likes of ale and had a different draft for every occasion that was possibly imaginable and some had managed to be tasteful, brimmed with flavour that could be appreciated by the Temerian while the others had escaped her understanding, leaving her confused by the choice of flavours that seemed only to conflict each other. “I’ve tasted more ale in the last few years to serve me for a lifetime.” Porcelain fingers danced, unable to be ceased as they fidget with such determination and expelled the energy that was growing, forming in the pit of her stomach. She was nervous. To be this close to Astraea was thrilling but at the very same moment tortuous, their last physical communication had dripped painfully with emotion and agony and in spite of time granting Amara Astraea’s forgiveness, fortune had not been on their side as the women had been unable to cross paths.

The Redenian sits facing the sorceress of Gors Velen, propping her head with her hand which rests on the back of the couch. Silently, she watched as the woman picks up her hair and reveals beautiful, pointy ears. She has loved every part of Amara and when they had been together, she often had placed soft kisses on those very tips. She knows the woman hides them and knows the reasons behind the action. A tragedy that they live in such a world with such hatred towards anyone or anything non-human. Astraea smiles, fondly if albeit secretively into her goblet as she notices just how bashful the woman was being. “Now. . . I never thought I’d see the day where Amara Isolda was so bashful” she says softly, resting her goblet on her lap. She reaches out briefly to tuck a lose strand of raven hair behind the woman’s ear.

There was unmistakable excitement radiating, echoing throughout the domicile as the members of the household rose from the comforts of their slumber and begun the necessary preparation for the events that would soon be seen consuming their day, fulfilling it with joyous energy that would promptly be forgotten, vanishing to dust as rightful anger and bitterness swarmed over the loving couple. Only a few short weeks prior had seen the women feverishly and spontaneously plan an fruitful escapade to the snowy, wintry lands of Skellige in means of purposely eluding the unforgiving heat that currently showered over the lands of Gors Velen for a few days, if not a month and attend the heart-warming festivals during the duration of their stay. And today was, in fact, the day that the women had planned to leave but unbeknownst to them, such plans would be interrupted, prevented beneath interfering hands of a past lover as a favour that simply couldn’t be ignored was called upon the Sorceress of Gors Velen.

Haste regarding their departure was decelerated as the Temerian’s presence was required in the marketplace in means of picking up an array of items for their travels, which, a small collection had purposely remained that of a secret. Amara had instantly found immense enjoyment in showering her lover with thoughtful gifts and tasteful sweets from the first moment that they met, truly wanting nothing more than to ensure that bashful responses and soft blushes were coaxed out and that the younger woman felt loved, seen and appreciated as she truly deserved. There was a soft kiss that was gently applied to Astraea’s rounded cheek and that of a charming simper easily danced along the edge of Amara’s ample lips as the half-elf pulled a loose, lace shawl over her pale shoulders to hide her porcelain skin from the blistering sun. “I’ll be back in a few.” She murmured ever so softly before the older woman took her departed, exiting her adobe and heading to the marketplace. It had, for the majority, gone swimmingly and without an issue but just as the Enchantress was moments from departing and returning to her home and the woman that she had left within it, her path had been surprisingly obscured by a raven that was simply all-too familiar and a sickeningly sweet voice rung through the depths of her mind. Yennefer.

The presence of the Vengerberg woman, even when she was not physically there constantly loomed over them. Amara is in no way, shape or form a horrible partner. She showed the werewitch affection, always made sure Astraea was aware of her lover and bathed her constantly in gifts and no matter how simple or extravagant they were, she felt that love in each one of them. Regardless of all of that, she still did not feel like the Temerian’s first choice and in there laid the problem. Amara had a nag of dropping whatever she was doing, with whomever she was with of Yennefer so much as utters her name.

More often than not the wolf finds herself alone, with plans ruined all because Yennefer had an urgent matter which required the help from the Temerian. As if the infamous sorceress of Vengerberg did not have other sorceress friends she could probably turn for help to. Perhaps it is because she was very much aware of the fact that Amara would never deny her, just as Astraea was very much aware of that. However the Redenian never spoke up on the matter, she would simply put up an understanding smile and nod or lately she’d taken to not responding at all and would simply find something to do herself to keep busy and keep her feelings buried.

Today was the day they left for Skellige for a little vacation they had planned. A way to get away from the merciless heat and humidity that seemed to have overtaken this side of the sea. An excuse to lock themselves away and bury themselves under furs by a fire and leave the bed only when hunger and the need for other necessities arose. They had planned it for weeks, speaking of it through the days which served to build up the excitement. If this came to be, if they truly managed to get away just for a bit, she’d be able to forgive and forget all the times Amara has had to change their plans. All she needed was one moment in time where it was just them, them far away from everything and everyone — specially Yennefer of Vengerberg.

She had waited, these last few days,waited for the raven haired woman to pop up with an emergency that would require Amara’s help for days but it never came. Perhaps she had celebrated too early, has sung in victory too soon. The wolf had shared a lovely morning with her beloved, shared sweet kisses while they prepared to leave. The half-elf had taken off towards the market to buy some final things they would need before they departed and in the meantime Astraea busied herself with finishing the trunk they would take. It is just as she finishes it that she hears the sorceress pf Gors Velen call for her. “Chambers, darling” she calls back, closing the truck and sighing. The Redenian hums and smiles at the kiss, closing her eyes which briefly pop open when those next words come out.

At first, Amara had given Yennefer everything that she wished for, that she wanted in hopes that perhaps, Geralt would be left and they would return to their lives but after time, after the moments they would be brought together and torn apart, answering to Yennefer’s beck and call simply became customary as there was no-one else in the older woman’s life and the younger woman remained the apple in her eye, in spite of the constant heartache their relationship brought to Amara. It was tradition that was buried deep and had been the knife that sliced slowly away at the relationship Amara had formed with Astraea. You see, Amara had not been without lovers, simply none of them had caught her attention to the point that they’d be more than a simply fling or a dirty one-night stand. Until Astraea, that is. Astraea was the first woman that had managers to steal her attention other than Yennefer. She was the absolute opposite. Astraea had been this bashful, silent Sorceress who came into the older woman’s town and their paths had crossed out of nowhere but Amara had instantly been taken, bewitched by her beauty and the bashfulness that was truly breathtaking in every form that it had been expressed and well, nothing had stopped the older woman from slowly carving her way into Astraea’s life. Time had seen them grow, soft and delicate until they became an item and all of those sickeningly sweet firsts were shared and Astraea was shyly invited to live with Amara rather than living in one of the local taverns. Everything that the younger woman wanted was given, well, where Yennefer was not concerned. A relationship with Amara came with the painful side of Yennefer and her interruptions that were more often than not demands and expectations for help, seeing the women’s plans ruined or postponed. Astraea had remained quiet and Amara had seen that as nothing more than that she had no issue and felt no way in regards to the constant interference.

Until now.

She could feel the tears slowly building in her eyes. A tongue peaks out to lick her lips, feeling an array of emoticons she couldn’t quite contain anymore. She doesn’t know why this is exactly the tipping point. Perhaps it was because she was looking forward to it the most. Perhaps it was because it meant something big for them, their first vacation while being officially together. Something serious for them, something that could mark the next step for them. She doesn’t really know, but it seems this is what finally breaks the dam. “You know lucky of her to catch you here rather than in Skellige and have you travel all the way back.” The words hold an edge of bitterness to them.

Her throat feels raw and gods, how could she ever think she ever stood a chance? And the thing is? She doesn’t blame Amara, whatever it was that kept her so devoted, so grounded in Yennefer’s orbit was — beyond either of their hands. It was the kind of love that the wolf knew deep within her she felt for the half-elf. The kind of love that would make you burn the world down, change it even. The kind of love that exists beyond your self being, so grand it was everything. And that was devastating, painfully tragic. The werewitch runs her fingers gently over her cheek and she realizes then that it is wet. A tear had slipped out unbeknownst to her.

Gods, saying it out loud just made it all that much more real and painful. “Do you even stop to think how it might make me feel? You don’t, you just say yes. You’re at her beck and call, she knows that and takes advantage of it.” She stays in her spot, feeling a lump forming in her throat. The wolf watched every movement of the opposite woman. “I can’t pretend to know what is it that its between you both, to understand it but I’m just. . . I’m so tired of coming second” she says with a choked up sob of her own. The Redenian covers her mouth as if to prevent them. The half-elf hadn’t ruined anything, outside of these repeated moments she was perfect in every way. So much so it had been so easy for the werewitch to fall so completely for her, so deeply.

The werewitch looks around their room, the one they’ve shared for months since Amara had told her to stay with her, as if it held some form of answer. Her heart twists and clenches in her chest in such a painful manner. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been with you. . . I’ve never felt a strongly for anyone else as I do for you. I feel like I could do anything and everything for you, Amara. But even now, even after everything that’s happened, Yennefer is still your priority. Which is alright, you love her in a way that is beyond comprehension of the mind.” In the way that I love you, she thinks to herself.

“You don’t. . . You don’t come second.” She whispered frighteningly quiet. Gods. Amara hadn’t ever felt this defeated, this broken and her heart ached with the pain, her body trembling. “I’m just. . . It’s hard for me. It isn’t my own choice that she remains a priority.” Perhaps, this could have been eased if she had simply told Astraea of the circumstances that left her painfully bonded to the younger woman. If she had simply asked for help rather than being ashamed of herself, of this situation she found herself intertwined with. “I’m bonded to her. It’s. . . I can’t help it. It’s some stupid soulbond and when Geralt cast the wish. . . You can fit the pieces of the puzzle together. While Yennefer’s part of the bond was damaged, nature tried to right the unbalanced and it landed on me.” If only Geralt and his bloody wish had simply severed the strand between her and Yennefer, this moment wouldn’t be happening and the women could be happy without incident. “You shouldn’t doubt my love for you. I would move mountains for you, to ensure that you are safe and happy. I have.” But then again, perhaps it hadn’t been enough when compared to the constant attention shown towards Yennefer. It was understandable as to why it simply faded into the cracks, seemingly worthless against her aide to Yennefer’s adventures.

A soul bound? Oh by gods, no wonder. They were rare, these soul bounds, thought to be myths. Something of old elven tales even. Suddenly all of it makes sense however and gods how can one stand a chance against that? She thought it unfair of destiny or fate or whatever had a say on this has dealt the Temerian sorceress a horrible hand. How unfair was if for Amara to have to feel everything while Yennefer only felt not even half of it anymore? “Oh Amara” she says softly, heart clenching even more, twisting in her chest for the woman. The werewitch begins to shake her head lightly, “I don’t doubt it, of course I don’t. This isn’t about doubting your love” and fuck, her stomach flutters and churns all at once. Because they are speaking of love, Amara has more than told her she loves her. Tears continue to flow, lip trembling.

Her entire body shakes with her silent sobs, throat constricting. I understand. Astraea watched as the sorceress from Gors Velen approaches her and takes her into a tight embrace. The act makes her sob audibly this time and she clings to the other woman, hands fisting the woman’s dress. She wishes to freeze time and keep it here so that she can remain in the woman’s arms. But even with all the magic in the continent such thing was not possible. The wolf sniffles and looks into those silver orbs with green ones glossy with tears. A choked up whimper gets caught in her throat when the half-elf kisses her. The Redenian seems to want to hold onto every part of Amara she could all while kissing her with the same passion and agony she tastes on those sweet lips.

 “It’s. . .” She had fallen silent. Gods. . . There was nothing more in this moment that Amara wanted to do than admit how this bond, however rare and fictious it might seem, was utterly and completely painful but how could she? It didn’t matter. Astraea’s mind was decided and any admission, even if Amara was upon her knees begging feverishly, wouldn’t change the outcome. “I’ll fix it.” Spoken with such benignity, they would find it impossible to hear if they weren’t Sorceresses and inhuman in their own right. Amara hadn’t dared to bring light to the bond she shared with Yennefer. Why would she? It had once brought her pleasure but in these last decades, it felt as if it brought her nothing but utter devastation. She shuddered as her blood turned as cold as the ice of Skellige itself, loathing the fact that it was this moment where the women’s declaration of love was admitted, shared. Suddenly, there was a sense of heightened clarity that begun to swim around Astraea’s words and the meaning within them. Could they ever simply be left alone as one while this bond struck out at her, struck out at them and slowly sucked them dry. And yet, the Sorceress of Gors Velen’s fingers do not ease on their pursuit to intertwine within Astraea’s clothing and ensuring that the woman remains painfully close, desperate just to experience for a few more moments before her departure was taken.

Was it not utterly unfair, absolutely heartbreaking that this is when their love is admitted, acknowledge and professed? This is not at all how she had imagined ever uttering those words for the first time. She pictured it a million ways. She pictured saying randomly after Amara does something in particular that makes her heart flutter. She pictured saying it after having a quiet, romantic dinner. She pictured saying it when both women are resting by a fire with their respective books in hand, She pictured saying as they lay in bed after having passionately fucked one another -- or even during it. But not like this, never like this. Astraea did not even entertain the idea of a life without Amara so why would she think of saying I love you for the first time as a goodbye?

She can taste the saltiness upon her tongue and she knows it is both of their tears which freely fall. She does not want to leave, does not wish to end what is the most significant relationship in her life. Yet she knows that she must, she must stick with her decision, for the sake of her heart in the long run. But she clings to the half-elf, desperately holds on and kisses her with the same intensity and vigor, the same passion that the sorceress from Gors Velen pours into it. And oh does she feel it, the love and care being poured into it. 

I love you.

It was a strange twist of fate, the events that had guided Yennefer forth to end up here, in the very midst of an seemingly endless crowd as those involved danced cheerfully, drinking till they reached their fill and radiated with that of untouched exuberance. Often, rumours floated about how Sorcerers and Sorceresses held an invisible string to the celebrations of Belleteyn, often lead in some way, shape or form to the festivities.

It was, supposedly, a time of celebration, assorted bonfires stacked high with the flammable material of gathered limber and fry kindling in preparation for the frolics that would ever so soon be set in motion, waiting patiently to be ignited by that of a flaming torch as the Festival of Belleteyn was to move onwards to yet another one of it’s glorious events that was often the topic spoken by countless of willing tongues.

Yennefer stood back from the gathering, remaining that of a reasonable distance as the Sorceress of Vengerberg watched on in silence with striking, amethyst hues that studied with devotion, even as a goblet of somewhat palatable ale was rested precariously on her gloved palm, the occasional sip being taken here and there.

If someone was to have mentioned that tonight of all nights would be the one that would set in place the motions of the Sorceress seeing a familiar face and setting the beginnings of something * 𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅, Yennefer would’ve called them out on their pure stupidity, their pure ridiculousness.

Yet…

It had, indeed, happened. Captured, somehow, by the movement of a mere flicker, the motions that belonged to that of a woman that’d passed. Yennefer was left uncharacteristically speechless by the sight of a familiar complexion wandering amongst the crowds that she had met once, someone that had, strangely enough, left her with a mindful of questions.

Astraea of Novigrad was a woman that had been met by chance, through that of a woman that they had both shared deep adoration for and whilst their meetings had been short, ever so effortlessly able to be counted on that of a single hand, the little werewitch was, admittedly, talented in her own right, remembered by Yennefer of Vengerberg for reasons both known and unknown. 

If the wolf was feeling ever so bold and in a particular mood, she would take on a lover. Though emerald hues take in the crowd and she couldn’t see a single person which strikes her fancy. So she drank and enjoyed the music for the most part. Sitting by one of the many fires, Astraea sips her ale at a slow pace, enjoying the taste when she hears a familiar voice. Familiar in the sense that she has heard it before, a handful of times but it was a rather difficult timbre to forget.

𝗠𝘆, 𝗺𝘆, 𝗺𝘆… 𝗜𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝘆 𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗯 𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗱?

She tilts her head, gaze landing on the raven haired woman. Shy lamb, she supposed that wasn’t so far off thought she enjoyed the irony of it since she was a wolf. There is a moment where Astraea debates on answers with something like ‘𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀?’ When the sorceress form Vengerberg asks about Lilith whereabouts. “On the path” she answer, “as all witchers always seem to be.” Unable to help herself, she scans the area, searching for another set of raven locks.

Only seconds. She had thought. It had only taken that of mere seconds for the Sorceress to begin her search, surveying the crowd for even the smallest of glimpses, Yennefer theorises. Was it concern that’d left the younger woman in search of raven locks or the shimmers of hope? Interesting …

“You won’t find her here, little one…” Yennefer had murmured dryly, the bridge of her fair nose crinkling ever so slightly as the depths of her beverage was watched, observed with befuddlement. “I heard on the grape vine that Nilfgaard holds our beloved friend, her efforts concentrated on alchemy for the ruler.”

Yennefer was rarely, if ever the type to be bothered by one’s discomfort. In fact, the Sorceress of Vengerberg had chosen the empty space that laid open, and untaken besides the younger woman, claiming it as her own as the potent scent of Lilac and Gooseberries surely invaded the Redanian’s senses unforgivingly.

𝗜𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻, 𝗜’𝗺 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲.

Now what was that supposed to mean? Her lips part as though to ask but she fall shut once more. There is not much time to dwell upon that because they are now on the subject of a certain Temerian. Her name is not spoken, it doesn’t need to be. A singular brow quirks as the dry tone with which the words are uttered and she wonders if Yennefer and Amara had parted ways less amicably than herself and the Temerian. She almost snorts at term used. ‘Beloved friend’ it is seems that the lilac eyed woman has yet to let that go. And it has been years since then but then again the sorceress from Vengerberg strikes her as someone that can hold onto things for centuries.

One could see the questions arising within the woman that Yennefer had chosen to bother, the wheels of her mind ever so loud as they turned. It was, admittedly, strangely refreshing to be in the presence of someone like Astraea. She did little in regards of insisting to hide herself from the prying gazes of those that surrounded her and didn’t hide her emotions and the questions that rose within her eyes. Yennefer, of course, knew of the questions that had gathered and had simply chosen to remain silent upon them, simply letting Astraea seek enjoyment in the festival rather than having it ruined.

“It isn’t to my taste.” Once or twice had been enough, back in the days that once held her friendship with Triss Merigold, one of the few souls alive that was able to convince Yennefer to participate in such events as this. Astraea’s nerves dripped unforgivingly, earning the tasteful arch of an manicured brow as the woman was observed, watched from the edge of Yennefer’s vision. “Stop being nervous, little wold. I would have bitten if I had desired, and obviously, I do not. We can save that for later.” 

The smell of lilac was potent, it always was of course but even more so when it was right beside her. Ever so sweet, invasive. It overtook one’s senses and she now understood why whenever Yennefer was mentioned, the color of her eyes and her smell were instantaneous thoughts which filtered through one’s mind.

Little lamb, little one, little wolf… Those were certainly choices. Rather interesting ones and it was ever so surprising that the werewitch hadn’t said anything about them. Perhaps deep down she sort of liked them. Not to mention the rather suggestive words that the raven haired woman kept throwing her way. Astraea was unsure of how to take them, unsure of Yennefer was flirting with her or being friendly. “Old habits die hard” she says after a good moment, “it seems to be an instinctive reaction around beautiful women.”

Yennefer permitted that of a velvety smooth purr to tumble forth from her parted brims, left rather pleased by the opposing woman’s chosen response. Astraea wasn’t as nearly timid as the Sorceress of Vengerberg was previously lead to believe and it was a satisfying discovery to uncover. “I see…” It was spoken in that of a lowly murmur as the older woman remained seemingly set on watching those participating in the festivities but had continued to observe, watching the younger woman from the fringe of her vision as the corner of her ever so supple lips begin to curl in that of a barely-there smirk. “You believe I’m beautiful… You have elegant taste.” 

She feels those violet eyes upon her when the sorceress decides to lay her concentration upon her. Astraea, as to not be rude, looks at the raven haired woman. The werewitch cannot help the blush that settles upon her cheeks at the compliment. “I suppose time has helped me develop some of that” she says in regards to the mentioned confidence. That questions makes her pause, staring into those vivid lilac hues while her heart beat so loud. The wolf licks on her dry lips, allowing her eyes to monetarily wander the black and white encased figure.

She has only ever seen Yennefer a handful of times and while each time she had noticed how absolutely breathtaking she was, she didn’t really take the time to appreciate it or anything else regarding the woman. See Amara was always there but now she wasn’t and both women were having a conversation around a bonfire with people drinking and — well fucking.

Such innocence this woman possessed, even after being involved with a certain Temerian that was known for creating ruins of such a quality… She could now understand the allure, the attraction that had once been felt by their friend for this little, saccharine wolf. Yennefer’s gaze was relentless, refusing to move from the woman that currently wore her interest. “It’s a blessing in disguise, after all…” Her words balanced that of a teasing inflection that rose forth, accompanied by the smouldering mischief that was etched across her features. “It gives me time to focus on the lovely ladies that seem to adorn these lands.”

She supposed that at this very moment the werewitch was the perfect combination of confidence and innocence. If there ever was one. She could feel how intensely the woman was looking at her and it made every hair on her body stand at attention. It took everything within the wolf to not shudder under it. Her hand runs along her dress lightly and she releases the softest of laughs. “What are you doing speaking to me then?” She half teased, bringing the tankard of ale up to her lips and taking a slow sip from it. Mostly to have something to do with her hand and her mouth.

Her brow slowly rose at the teasing words, striking spherules narrowing at a frightening speed to settle boldly upon the Sorceress as the edge of her brims danced with a bridled smirk and the depths of her chest resonated with a lowly chuckle. “Oh, Little Wolf…” She begun slowly, the words dripping from her lips as if it was nothing more than pure honey and her petite body turned, the tip of her heeled boot gliding along Astraea’s inner calf in a teasing but purposeful swipe. “I’m speaking to a beautiful woman.” One would have to be blind and retarded to not notice the opposing woman’s glorious beauty that simply couldn’t be debated. Astraea was beautiful, even Yennefer had admitted that when she was first discovered wondering about within Amara’s home once the waves of jealously and annoyance vanished. “You are beautiful, are you not? Or are you truly so angelic that you can’t admit to your own beauty?”

There is a smirk upon her lips and Astraea cannot help but feel mild concern because -- well that screams danger. She has to swallow thick to try and moist her throat, albeit it does not work so she brings the mug of ale to her lips. There is something about the way that Yennefer (and Amara) refer to her as little that makes her body vibrate. The shifting catches the wolf’s attention and she observes as the raven haired woman turns to face her better. The werewitch is still drinking when she feels that touch to her calf which takes her by surprise. Therefore she chokes slightly upon her drink. Melitele have mercy upon her soul. Her cheeks become a bright shade of pink at both the actions and the words which fall from plump lips. Astraea had to take a moment to wonder just how exactly she ended up here with none other than Yennefer of Vengerberg, the woman who owns her beloved’s heart. She had loathed the mere sight of the lilac eyed mage upon first meeting. And when seeing her with Amara when having figured out she was not dead. She had felt an inexplicable amount of jealousy for various reasons and now here they are, flirting. “I - well” she stutters ever so, blush spreading down to her neck. “Well no, I can admit I am nice to look at” she murmurs, shifting on her seat, “but I’m nothing in comparison to others.” To you. 

There was unmistakable excitement radiating, echoing throughout the domicile as the members of the household rose from the comforts of their slumber and begun the necessary preparation for the events that would soon be seen consuming their day, fulfilling it with joyous energy that would promptly be forgotten, vanishing to dust as rightful anger and bitterness swarmed over the loving couple. Only a few short weeks prior had seen the women feverishly and spontaneously plan an fruitful escapade to the snowy, wintry lands of Skellige in means of purposely eluding the unforgiving heat that currently showered over the lands of Gors Velen for a few days, if not a month and attend the heart-warming festivals during the duration of their stay. And today was, in fact, the day that the women had planned to leave but unbeknownst to them, such plans would be interrupted, prevented beneath interfering hands of a past lover as a favour that simply couldn’t be ignored was called upon the Sorceress of Gors Velen.

Haste regarding their departure was decelerated as the Temerian’s presence was required in the marketplace in means of picking up an array of items for their travels, which, a small collection had purposely remained that of a secret. Amara had instantly found immense enjoyment in showering her lover with thoughtful gifts and tasteful sweets from the first moment that they met, truly wanting nothing more than to ensure that bashful responses and soft blushes were coaxed out and that the younger woman felt loved, seen and appreciated as she truly deserved. There was a soft kiss that was gently applied to Astraea’s rounded cheek and that of a charming simper easily danced along the edge of Amara’s ample lips as the half-elf pulled a loose, lace shawl over her pale shoulders to hide her porcelain skin from the blistering sun. “I’ll be back in a few.” She murmured ever so softly before the older woman took her departed, exiting her adobe and heading to the marketplace. It had, for the majority, gone swimmingly and without an issue but just as the Enchantress was moments from departing and returning to her home and the woman that she had left within it, her path had been surprisingly obscured by a raven that was simply all-too familiar and a sickeningly sweet voice rung through the depths of her mind. Yennefer.

The presence of the Vengerberg woman, even when she was not physically there constantly loomed over them. Amara is in no way, shape or form a horrible partner. She showed the werewitch affection, always made sure Astraea was aware of her lover and bathed her constantly in gifts and no matter how simple or extravagant they were, she felt that love in each one of them. Regardless of all of that, she still did not feel like the Temerian’s first choice and in there laid the problem. Amara had a nag of dropping whatever she was doing, with whomever she was with of Yennefer so much as utters her name.

More often than not the wolf finds herself alone, with plans ruined all because Yennefer had an urgent matter which required the help from the Temerian. As if the infamous sorceress of Vengerberg did not have other sorceress friends she could probably turn for help to. Perhaps it is because she was very much aware of the fact that Amara would never deny her, just as Astraea was very much aware of that. However the Redenian never spoke up on the matter, she would simply put up an understanding smile and nod or lately she’d taken to not responding at all and would simply find something to do herself to keep busy and keep her feelings buried.

Today was the day they left for Skellige for a little vacation they had planned. A way to get away from the merciless heat and humidity that seemed to have overtaken this side of the sea. An excuse to lock themselves away and bury themselves under furs by a fire and leave the bed only when hunger and the need for other necessities arose. They had planned it for weeks, speaking of it through the days which served to build up the excitement. If this came to be, if they truly managed to get away just for a bit, she’d be able to forgive and forget all the times Amara has had to change their plans. All she needed was one moment in time where it was just them, them far away from everything and everyone — specially Yennefer of Vengerberg.

She had waited, these last few days,waited for the raven haired woman to pop up with an emergency that would require Amara’s help for days but it never came. Perhaps she had celebrated too early, has sung in victory too soon. The wolf had shared a lovely morning with her beloved, shared sweet kisses while they prepared to leave. The half-elf had taken off towards the market to buy some final things they would need before they departed and in the meantime Astraea busied herself with finishing the trunk they would take. It is just as she finishes it that she hears the sorceress pf Gors Velen call for her. “Chambers, darling” she calls back, closing the truck and sighing. The Redenian hums and smiles at the kiss, closing her eyes which briefly pop open when those next words come out.

At first, Amara had given Yennefer everything that she wished for, that she wanted in hopes that perhaps, Geralt would be left and they would return to their lives but after time, after the moments they would be brought together and torn apart, answering to Yennefer’s beck and call simply became customary as there was no-one else in the older woman’s life and the younger woman remained the apple in her eye, in spite of the constant heartache their relationship brought to Amara. It was tradition that was buried deep and had been the knife that sliced slowly away at the relationship Amara had formed with Astraea. You see, Amara had not been without lovers, simply none of them had caught her attention to the point that they’d be more than a simply fling or a dirty one-night stand. Until Astraea, that is. Astraea was the first woman that had managers to steal her attention other than Yennefer. She was the absolute opposite. Astraea had been this bashful, silent Sorceress who came into the older woman’s town and their paths had crossed out of nowhere but Amara had instantly been taken, bewitched by her beauty and the bashfulness that was truly breathtaking in every form that it had been expressed and well, nothing had stopped the older woman from slowly carving her way into Astraea’s life. Time had seen them grow, soft and delicate until they became an item and all of those sickeningly sweet firsts were shared and Astraea was shyly invited to live with Amara rather than living in one of the local taverns. Everything that the younger woman wanted was given, well, where Yennefer was not concerned. A relationship with Amara came with the painful side of Yennefer and her interruptions that were more often than not demands and expectations for help, seeing the women’s plans ruined or postponed. Astraea had remained quiet and Amara had seen that as nothing more than that she had no issue and felt no way in regards to the constant interference.

Until now.

She could feel the tears slowly building in her eyes. A tongue peaks out to lick her lips, feeling an array of emoticons she couldn’t quite contain anymore. She doesn’t know why this is exactly the tipping point. Perhaps it was because she was looking forward to it the most. Perhaps it was because it meant something big for them, their first vacation while being officially together. Something serious for them, something that could mark the next step for them. She doesn’t really know, but it seems this is what finally breaks the dam. “You know lucky of her to catch you here rather than in Skellige and have you travel all the way back.” The words hold an edge of bitterness to them.

Her throat feels raw and gods, how could she ever think she ever stood a chance? And the thing is? She doesn’t blame Amara, whatever it was that kept her so devoted, so grounded in Yennefer’s orbit was — beyond either of their hands. It was the kind of love that the wolf knew deep within her she felt for the half-elf. The kind of love that would make you burn the world down, change it even. The kind of love that exists beyond your self being, so grand it was everything. And that was devastating, painfully tragic. The werewitch runs her fingers gently over her cheek and she realizes then that it is wet. A tear had slipped out unbeknownst to her.

Gods, saying it out loud just made it all that much more real and painful. “Do you even stop to think how it might make me feel? You don’t, you just say yes. You’re at her beck and call, she knows that and takes advantage of it.” She stays in her spot, feeling a lump forming in her throat. The wolf watched every movement of the opposite woman. “I can’t pretend to know what is it that its between you both, to understand it but I’m just. . . I’m so tired of coming second” she says with a choked up sob of her own. The Redenian covers her mouth as if to prevent them. The half-elf hadn’t ruined anything, outside of these repeated moments she was perfect in every way. So much so it had been so easy for the werewitch to fall so completely for her, so deeply.

The werewitch looks around their room, the one they’ve shared for months since Amara had told her to stay with her, as if it held some form of answer. Her heart twists and clenches in her chest in such a painful manner. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been with you. . . I’ve never felt a strongly for anyone else as I do for you. I feel like I could do anything and everything for you, Amara. But even now, even after everything that’s happened, Yennefer is still your priority. Which is alright, you love her in a way that is beyond comprehension of the mind.” In the way that I love you, she thinks to herself.

“You don’t. . . You don’t come second.” She whispered frighteningly quiet. Gods. Amara hadn’t ever felt this defeated, this broken and her heart ached with the pain, her body trembling. “I’m just. . . It’s hard for me. It isn’t my own choice that she remains a priority.” Perhaps, this could have been eased if she had simply told Astraea of the circumstances that left her painfully bonded to the younger woman. If she had simply asked for help rather than being ashamed of herself, of this situation she found herself intertwined with. “I’m bonded to her. It’s. . . I can’t help it. It’s some stupid soulbond and when Geralt cast the wish. . . You can fit the pieces of the puzzle together. While Yennefer’s part of the bond was damaged, nature tried to right the unbalanced and it landed on me.” If only Geralt and his bloody wish had simply severed the strand between her and Yennefer, this moment wouldn’t be happening and the women could be happy without incident. “You shouldn’t doubt my love for you. I would move mountains for you, to ensure that you are safe and happy. I have.” But then again, perhaps it hadn’t been enough when compared to the constant attention shown towards Yennefer. It was understandable as to why it simply faded into the cracks, seemingly worthless against her aide to Yennefer’s adventures.

A soul bound? Oh by gods, no wonder. They were rare, these soul bounds, thought to be myths. Something of old elven tales even. Suddenly all of it makes sense however and gods how can one stand a chance against that? She thought it unfair of destiny or fate or whatever had a say on this has dealt the Temerian sorceress a horrible hand. How unfair was if for Amara to have to feel everything while Yennefer only felt not even half of it anymore? “Oh Amara” she says softly, heart clenching even more, twisting in her chest for the woman. The werewitch begins to shake her head lightly, “I don’t doubt it, of course I don’t. This isn’t about doubting your love” and fuck, her stomach flutters and churns all at once. Because they are speaking of love, Amara has more than told her she loves her. Tears continue to flow, lip trembling.

Her entire body shakes with her silent sobs, throat constricting. I understand. Astraea watched as the sorceress from Gors Velen approaches her and takes her into a tight embrace. The act makes her sob audibly this time and she clings to the other woman, hands fisting the woman’s dress. She wishes to freeze time and keep it here so that she can remain in the woman’s arms. But even with all the magic in the continent such thing was not possible. The wolf sniffles and looks into those silver orbs with green ones glossy with tears. A choked up whimper gets caught in her throat when the half-elf kisses her. The Redenian seems to want to hold onto every part of Amara she could all while kissing her with the same passion and agony she tastes on those sweet lips.

There was unmistakable excitement radiating, echoing throughout the domicile as the members of the household rose from the comforts of their slumber and begun the necessary preparation for the events that would soon be seen consuming their day, fulfilling it with joyous energy that would promptly be forgotten, vanishing to dust as rightful anger and bitterness swarmed over the loving couple. Only a few short weeks prior had seen the women feverishly and spontaneously plan an fruitful escapade to the snowy, wintry lands of Skellige in means of purposely eluding the unforgiving heat that currently showered over the lands of Gors Velen for a few days, if not a month and attend the heart-warming festivals during the duration of their stay. And today was, in fact, the day that the women had planned to leave but unbeknownst to them, such plans would be interrupted, prevented beneath interfering hands of a past lover as a favour that simply couldn’t be ignored was called upon the Sorceress of Gors Velen.

Haste regarding their departure was decelerated as the Temerian’s presence was required in the marketplace in means of picking up an array of items for their travels, which, a small collection had purposely remained that of a secret. Amara had instantly found immense enjoyment in showering her lover with thoughtful gifts and tasteful sweets from the first moment that they met, truly wanting nothing more than to ensure that bashful responses and soft blushes were coaxed out and that the younger woman felt loved, seen and appreciated as she truly deserved. There was a soft kiss that was gently applied to Astraea’s rounded cheek and that of a charming simper easily danced along the edge of Amara’s ample lips as the half-elf pulled a loose, lace shawl over her pale shoulders to hide her porcelain skin from the blistering sun. “I’ll be back in a few.” She murmured ever so softly before the older woman took her departed, exiting her adobe and heading to the marketplace. It had, for the majority, gone swimmingly and without an issue but just as the Enchantress was moments from departing and returning to her home and the woman that she had left within it, her path had been surprisingly obscured by a raven that was simply all-too familiar and a sickeningly sweet voice rung through the depths of her mind. Yennefer.

The presence of the Vengerberg woman, even when she was not physically there constantly loomed over them. Amara is in no way, shape or form a horrible partner. She showed the werewitch affection, always made sure Astraea was aware of her lover and bathed her constantly in gifts and no matter how simple or extravagant they were, she felt that love in each one of them. Regardless of all of that, she still did not feel like the Temerian’s first choice and in there laid the problem. Amara had a nag of dropping whatever she was doing, with whomever she was with of Yennefer so much as utters her name.

More often than not the wolf finds herself alone, with plans ruined all because Yennefer had an urgent matter which required the help from the Temerian. As if the infamous sorceress of Vengerberg did not have other sorceress friends she could probably turn for help to. Perhaps it is because she was very much aware of the fact that Amara would never deny her, just as Astraea was very much aware of that. However the Redenian never spoke up on the matter, she would simply put up an understanding smile and nod or lately she’d taken to not responding at all and would simply find something to do herself to keep busy and keep her feelings buried.

Today was the day they left for Skellige for a little vacation they had planned. A way to get away from the merciless heat and humidity that seemed to have overtaken this side of the sea. An excuse to lock themselves away and bury themselves under furs by a fire and leave the bed only when hunger and the need for other necessities arose. They had planned it for weeks, speaking of it through the days which served to build up the excitement. If this came to be, if they truly managed to get away just for a bit, she’d be able to forgive and forget all the times Amara has had to change their plans. All she needed was one moment in time where it was just them, them far away from everything and everyone — specially Yennefer of Vengerberg.

She had waited, these last few days,waited for the raven haired woman to pop up with an emergency that would require Amara’s help for days but it never came. Perhaps she had celebrated too early, has sung in victory too soon. The wolf had shared a lovely morning with her beloved, shared sweet kisses while they prepared to leave. The half-elf had taken off towards the market to buy some final things they would need before they departed and in the meantime Astraea busied herself with finishing the trunk they would take. It is just as she finishes it that she hears the sorceress pf Gors Velen call for her. “Chambers, darling” she calls back, closing the truck and sighing. The Redenian hums and smiles at the kiss, closing her eyes which briefly pop open when those next words come out.

At first, Amara had given Yennefer everything that she wished for, that she wanted in hopes that perhaps, Geralt would be left and they would return to their lives but after time, after the moments they would be brought together and torn apart, answering to Yennefer’s beck and call simply became customary as there was no-one else in the older woman’s life and the younger woman remained the apple in her eye, in spite of the constant heartache their relationship brought to Amara. It was tradition that was buried deep and had been the knife that sliced slowly away at the relationship Amara had formed with Astraea. You see, Amara had not been without lovers, simply none of them had caught her attention to the point that they’d be more than a simply fling or a dirty one-night stand. Until Astraea, that is. Astraea was the first woman that had managers to steal her attention other than Yennefer. She was the absolute opposite. Astraea had been this bashful, silent Sorceress who came into the older woman’s town and their paths had crossed out of nowhere but Amara had instantly been taken, bewitched by her beauty and the bashfulness that was truly breathtaking in every form that it had been expressed and well, nothing had stopped the older woman from slowly carving her way into Astraea’s life. Time had seen them grow, soft and delicate until they became an item and all of those sickeningly sweet firsts were shared and Astraea was shyly invited to live with Amara rather than living in one of the local taverns. Everything that the younger woman wanted was given, well, where Yennefer was not concerned. A relationship with Amara came with the painful side of Yennefer and her interruptions that were more often than not demands and expectations for help, seeing the women’s plans ruined or postponed. Astraea had remained quiet and Amara had seen that as nothing more than that she had no issue and felt no way in regards to the constant interference.

Until now.

She could feel the tears slowly building in her eyes. A tongue peaks out to lick her lips, feeling an array of emoticons she couldn’t quite contain anymore. She doesn’t know why this is exactly the tipping point. Perhaps it was because she was looking forward to it the most. Perhaps it was because it meant something big for them, their first vacation while being officially together. Something serious for them, something that could mark the next step for them. She doesn’t really know, but it seems this is what finally breaks the dam. “You know lucky of her to catch you here rather than in Skellige and have you travel all the way back.” The words hold an edge of bitterness to them.

Her throat feels raw and gods, how could she ever think she ever stood a chance? And the thing is? She doesn’t blame Amara, whatever it was that kept her so devoted, so grounded in Yennefer’s orbit was — beyond either of their hands. It was the kind of love that the wolf knew deep within her she felt for the half-elf. The kind of love that would make you burn the world down, change it even. The kind of love that exists beyond your self being, so grand it was everything. And that was devastating, painfully tragic. The werewitch runs her fingers gently over her cheek and she realizes then that it is wet. A tear had slipped out unbeknownst to her.

Gods, saying it out loud just made it all that much more real and painful. “Do you even stop to think how it might make me feel? You don’t, you just say yes. You’re at her beck and call, she knows that and takes advantage of it.” She stays in her spot, feeling a lump forming in her throat. The wolf watched every movement of the opposite woman. “I can’t pretend to know what is it that its between you both, to understand it but I’m just. . . I’m so tired of coming second” she says with a choked up sob of her own. The Redenian covers her mouth as if to prevent them. The half-elf hadn’t ruined anything, outside of these repeated moments she was perfect in every way. So much so it had been so easy for the werewitch to fall so completely for her, so deeply.

The werewitch looks around their room, the one they’ve shared for months since Amara had told her to stay with her, as if it held some form of answer. Her heart twists and clenches in her chest in such a painful manner. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been with you. . . I’ve never felt a strongly for anyone else as I do for you. I feel like I could do anything and everything for you, Amara. But even now, even after everything that’s happened, Yennefer is still your priority. Which is alright, you love her in a way that is beyond comprehension of the mind.” In the way that I love you, she thinks to herself.

There was unmistakable excitement radiating, echoing throughout the domicile as the members of the household rose from the comforts of their slumber and begun the necessary preparation for the events that would soon be seen consuming their day, fulfilling it with joyous energy that would promptly be forgotten, vanishing to dust as rightful anger and bitterness swarmed over the loving couple. Only a few short weeks prior had seen the women feverishly and spontaneously plan an fruitful escapade to the snowy, wintry lands of Skellige in means of purposely eluding the unforgiving heat that currently showered over the lands of Gors Velen for a few days, if not a month and attend the heart-warming festivals during the duration of their stay. And today was, in fact, the day that the women had planned to leave but unbeknownst to them, such plans would be interrupted, prevented beneath interfering hands of a past lover as a favour that simply couldn’t be ignored was called upon the Sorceress of Gors Velen.

Haste regarding their departure was decelerated as the Temerian’s presence was required in the marketplace in means of picking up an array of items for their travels, which, a small collection had purposely remained that of a secret. Amara had instantly found immense enjoyment in showering her lover with thoughtful gifts and tasteful sweets from the first moment that they met, truly wanting nothing more than to ensure that bashful responses and soft blushes were coaxed out and that the younger woman felt loved, seen and appreciated as she truly deserved. There was a soft kiss that was gently applied to Astraea’s rounded cheek and that of a charming simper easily danced along the edge of Amara’s ample lips as the half-elf pulled a loose, lace shawl over her pale shoulders to hide her porcelain skin from the blistering sun. “I’ll be back in a few.” She murmured ever so softly before the older woman took her departed, exiting her adobe and heading to the marketplace. It had, for the majority, gone swimmingly and without an issue but just as the Enchantress was moments from departing and returning to her home and the woman that she had left within it, her path had been surprisingly obscured by a raven that was simply all-too familiar and a sickeningly sweet voice rung through the depths of her mind. Yennefer.

The presence of the Vengerberg woman, even when she was not physically there constantly loomed over them. Amara is in no way, shape or form a horrible partner. She showed the werewitch affection, always made sure Astraea was aware of her lover and bathed her constantly in gifts and no matter how simple or extravagant they were, she felt that love in each one of them. Regardless of all of that, she still did not feel like the Temerian’s first choice and in there laid the problem. Amara had a nag of dropping whatever she was doing, with whomever she was with of Yennefer so much as utters her name.

More often than not the wolf finds herself alone, with plans ruined all because Yennefer had an urgent matter which required the help from the Temerian. As if the infamous sorceress of Vengerberg did not have other sorceress friends she could probably turn for help to. Perhaps it is because she was very much aware of the fact that Amara would never deny her, just as Astraea was very much aware of that. However the Redenian never spoke up on the matter, she would simply put up an understanding smile and nod or lately she’d taken to not responding at all and would simply find something to do herself to keep busy and keep her feelings buried.

Today was the day they left for Skellige for a little vacation they had planned. A way to get away from the merciless heat and humidity that seemed to have overtaken this side of the sea. An excuse to lock themselves away and bury themselves under furs by a fire and leave the bed only when hunger and the need for other necessities arose. They had planned it for weeks, speaking of it through the days which served to build up the excitement. If this came to be, if they truly managed to get away just for a bit, she’d be able to forgive and forget all the times Amara has had to change their plans. All she needed was one moment in time where it was just them, them far away from everything and everyone — specially Yennefer of Vengerberg.

She had waited, these last few days,waited for the raven haired woman to pop up with an emergency that would require Amara’s help for days but it never came. Perhaps she had celebrated too early, has sung in victory too soon. The wolf had shared a lovely morning with her beloved, shared sweet kisses while they prepared to leave. The half-elf had taken off towards the market to buy some final things they would need before they departed and in the meantime Astraea busied herself with finishing the trunk they would take. It is just as she finishes it that she hears the sorceress pf Gors Velen call for her. “Chambers, darling” she calls back, closing the truck and sighing. The Redenian hums and smiles at the kiss, closing her eyes which briefly pop open when those next words come out.

At first, Amara had given Yennefer everything that she wished for, that she wanted in hopes that perhaps, Geralt would be left and they would return to their lives but after time, after the moments they would be brought together and torn apart, answering to Yennefer’s beck and call simply became customary as there was no-one else in the older woman’s life and the younger woman remained the apple in her eye, in spite of the constant heartache their relationship brought to Amara. It was tradition that was buried deep and had been the knife that sliced slowly away at the relationship Amara had formed with Astraea. You see, Amara had not been without lovers, simply none of them had caught her attention to the point that they’d be more than a simply fling or a dirty one-night stand. Until Astraea, that is. Astraea was the first woman that had managers to steal her attention other than Yennefer. She was the absolute opposite. Astraea had been this bashful, silent Sorceress who came into the older woman’s town and their paths had crossed out of nowhere but Amara had instantly been taken, bewitched by her beauty and the bashfulness that was truly breathtaking in every form that it had been expressed and well, nothing had stopped the older woman from slowly carving her way into Astraea’s life. Time had seen them grow, soft and delicate until they became an item and all of those sickeningly sweet firsts were shared and Astraea was shyly invited to live with Amara rather than living in one of the local taverns. Everything that the younger woman wanted was given, well, where Yennefer was not concerned. A relationship with Amara came with the painful side of Yennefer and her interruptions that were more often than not demands and expectations for help, seeing the women’s plans ruined or postponed. Astraea had remained quiet and Amara had seen that as nothing more than that she had no issue and felt no way in regards to the constant interference.

Until now.

She could feel the tears slowly building in her eyes. A tongue peaks out to lick her lips, feeling an array of emoticons she couldn’t quite contain anymore. She doesn’t know why this is exactly the tipping point. Perhaps it was because she was looking forward to it the most. Perhaps it was because it meant something big for them, their first vacation while being officially together. Something serious for them, something that could mark the next step for them. She doesn’t really know, but it seems this is what finally breaks the dam. “You know lucky of her to catch you here rather than in Skellige and have you travel all the way back.” The words hold an edge of bitterness to them.

Her throat feels raw and gods, how could she ever think she ever stood a chance? And the thing is? She doesn’t blame Amara, whatever it was that kept her so devoted, so grounded in Yennefer’s orbit was — beyond either of their hands. It was the kind of love that the wolf knew deep within her she felt for the half-elf. The kind of love that would make you burn the world down, change it even. The kind of love that exists beyond your self being, so grand it was everything. And that was devastating, painfully tragic. The werewitch runs her fingers gently over her cheek and she realizes then that it is wet. A tear had slipped out unbeknownst to her.

There was unmistakable excitement radiating, echoing throughout the domicile as the members of the household rose from the comforts of their slumber and begun the necessary preparation for the events that would soon be seen consuming their day, fulfilling it with joyous energy that would promptly be forgotten, vanishing to dust as rightful anger and bitterness swarmed over the loving couple. Only a few short weeks prior had seen the women feverishly and spontaneously plan an fruitful escapade to the snowy, wintry lands of Skellige in means of purposely eluding the unforgiving heat that currently showered over the lands of Gors Velen for a few days, if not a month and attend the heart-warming festivals during the duration of their stay. And today was, in fact, the day that the women had planned to leave but unbeknownst to them, such plans would be interrupted, prevented beneath interfering hands of a past lover as a favour that simply couldn’t be ignored was called upon the Sorceress of Gors Velen.

Haste regarding their departure was decelerated as the Temerian’s presence was required in the marketplace in means of picking up an array of items for their travels, which, a small collection had purposely remained that of a secret. Amara had instantly found immense enjoyment in showering her lover with thoughtful gifts and tasteful sweets from the first moment that they met, truly wanting nothing more than to ensure that bashful responses and soft blushes were coaxed out and that the younger woman felt loved, seen and appreciated as she truly deserved. There was a soft kiss that was gently applied to Astraea’s rounded cheek and that of a charming simper easily danced along the edge of Amara’s ample lips as the half-elf pulled a loose, lace shawl over her pale shoulders to hide her porcelain skin from the blistering sun. “I’ll be back in a few.” She murmured ever so softly before the older woman took her departed, exiting her adobe and heading to the marketplace. It had, for the majority, gone swimmingly and without an issue but just as the Enchantress was moments from departing and returning to her home and the woman that she had left within it, her path had been surprisingly obscured by a raven that was simply all-too familiar and a sickeningly sweet voice rung through the depths of her mind. Yennefer.

The presence of the Vengerberg woman, even when she was not physically there constantly loomed over them. Amara is in no way, shape or form a horrible partner. She showed the werewitch affection, always made sure Astraea was aware of her lover and bathed her constantly in gifts and no matter how simple or extravagant they were, she felt that love in each one of them. Regardless of all of that, she still did not feel like the Temerian’s first choice and in there laid the problem. Amara had a nag of dropping whatever she was doing, with whomever she was with of Yennefer so much as utters her name.

More often than not the wolf finds herself alone, with plans ruined all because Yennefer had an urgent matter which required the help from the Temerian. As if the infamous sorceress of Vengerberg did not have other sorceress friends she could probably turn for help to. Perhaps it is because she was very much aware of the fact that Amara would never deny her, just as Astraea was very much aware of that. However the Redenian never spoke up on the matter, she would simply put up an understanding smile and nod or lately she’d taken to not responding at all and would simply find something to do herself to keep busy and keep her feelings buried.

Today was the day they left for Skellige for a little vacation they had planned. A way to get away from the merciless heat and humidity that seemed to have overtaken this side of the sea. An excuse to lock themselves away and bury themselves under furs by a fire and leave the bed only when hunger and the need for other necessities arose. They had planned it for weeks, speaking of it through the days which served to build up the excitement. If this came to be, if they truly managed to get away just for a bit, she’d be able to forgive and forget all the times Amara has had to change their plans. All she needed was one moment in time where it was just them, them far away from everything and everyone — specially Yennefer of Vengerberg.

She had waited, these last few days,waited for the raven haired woman to pop up with an emergency that would require Amara’s help for days but it never came. Perhaps she had celebrated too early, has sung in victory too soon. The wolf had shared a lovely morning with her beloved, shared sweet kisses while they prepared to leave. The half-elf had taken off towards the market to buy some final things they would need before they departed and in the meantime Astraea busied herself with finishing the trunk they would take. It is just as she finishes it that she hears the sorceress pf Gors Velen call for her. “Chambers, darling” she calls back, closing the truck and sighing. The Redenian hums and smiles at the kiss, closing her eyes which briefly pop open when those next words come out.

It was, as it had been countless times before, another period of uncertainty for those across the continent, each kingdom brimming with concern for their own health and prosperity as the beginnings of war begun to brew, biting at their heels with weighted questions that demanded answers and effortlessly ignited fear into the hearts of those that watched on with barely bitten back trepidation. Who could have predicted yet another turn of events that could, once more, leave thousands struck by poverty as they are forced to remain upon war-torn lands that had barely begun to recuperate after the last?

Only months ago had the whispers begun, spreading the secrets regarding the conflict that was rising between the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardian Empire. It was, simply, the same story written in that of another font and with the blood of those caught between the desire to rule, conquer what was not their own.

Realisation on the severity of the situation had settled in the horizon’s once sightings of troops commencing the inevitable structure of battle stations begun to be seen across both realms, the worry of the people soon finding it’s way to the advisors of the courts. Concern had begun to bubble over and had, ever so obviously, reached that of a breaking point as a rare gathering of magical factions was commenced and lead them to this … moment.

On one hand held the number of times that the Sorceress of Gors Velen had visited the infamous establishment of Aretuza, each experience causing the woman’s opinions to sour regarding their ridiculous outlook on life in general but the standards they had set that held them back in comparison to institutions they existed beside.

Each faction had promptly arrived at the decision to call upon their greatest and brightest graduates to be present, those that outshone their peers in some way, shape or form and had, for appropriate and respectful reasons, made a name for themselves whether it was for talent or intelligence, and was known to hold their own in times of great stress and danger. Uncertain times called for those that could pull them out of it and not worsen the damage that was threatening to fall on them all.

Amara Isolda, somehow, found herself here, amongst her fellow graduates of Rissberg, old and now, in the midst of tension that could be cut with the dullest of blades and little effort. 

She had expected to see a few familiar faces in the midst of the crowd, Yennefer of Vengerberg, for an example, talented in her own right and intelligent as they could come, the savior of hundreds, if not thousands of lives for her sacrifice at Sodden and her fiery-haired friend, also known for her talent and valour in times of need for those that required it.

Isolda had chosen to linger, existing behind the crowds as they waited for the last few that were required to arrive for the beginning of this gathering to truly comment, the Temerian not overly interested in either options of divulging in a short, meaningless conversation or twisting through crowds in search for old companions for a short and perhaps tense greetings.

Back to the point at hand, however. War. Yes, of course this was a not so new arising problem that had Aretuza as well as the other factions worried. That worry and ever hovering fear is the unknown called for a meeting between all schools and their best mentees. The werewitch has to wonder if she would’ve been invited before today were she not a rectoress. She always did doubt her own magical abilities and no amount of grown up has eased such doubts all the way. Though she is far more confident in many things, experience aiding in that.

Where was she? Ah, the meeting that had been called. She could head bodies piling in, in the strategy room from her office with her enhanced hearing. She sat there for a good while before deciding to head over when arrivals began to slow down. She had no idea who to expect though the knowledge of Rissberg had her thinking of Amara. It always did even though now she knew more than one sorceress from it, having to deal with a few in her new position. Despite thinking of the raven haired sorceress who once owned her whole heart and was more or less the center of the wolf’s universe, Astraea wasn’t expecting to see her.

Walking to the grand doors, the werewitch steps in with confidence, watching first where she stepped before raising her gaze.

It was almost ludicrous to think of how many times such events had held her presence, how often they arose to calm the unnecessary tantrum that was thrown by childish sovereigns in an attempt to gain one of their desires or to make a point that was, inevitably, pointless.

Amara was old, perhaps even ancient in the eyes of those that surrounded her. She was, sadly enough, just that, only a few leagues behind that of Philippa Eilhart but her age, in this moment, served to prove a statement that so many wouldn’t realise until they were far into their first century, conflicts would not be solved unless the creators truly wanted it to be resolved.

Curiosity held her here more than duty, desiring to see the answers that her fellow Sorcerers and Sorceresses would arrive at in this current decade.

Alas, her concentration had been broken, torn from her thoughts regarding the latest tensions to tend to the weighted gaze that had settled upon her and caused her heart to seize with unbridled emotion that could be caused by only two people across the entire continent and her body to fall victim to unforgiving flames that scorched, reminded her of touches that were now absence, that of memories. Amara, similar to Astraea, didn’t need to search, gaze immediately seeking the woman responsible in only a matter of seconds and their gazes locking in a passionate embrace that’d left the older woman ever so breathless and suffering from an increase in tempo of her heart, variegated hues dancing with emotions. Astraea, all in the one moment, looked as if she hadn’t changed a single inch but had changed completely.

Her steps had been slow, brimming with uncertainly before growing meticulous as the Sorceress of Gors Velen discovered her courage and chose to approach. Was it not right to approach, and see the woman that had once held her heart? See the opposite after decades of separations that only held chance meetings that had no time for conversation as their duties caused them to continue on.

What will be said? What will happen? Not much conversation will be able to be had once the meeting begins but even being next to the raven haired woman served to strip away any of her armor. She takes a deep breath and stills herself right as the sorceress arrives and utters her name.

She was breathless and burning, worn fingers aching unforgivingly with the need to fidget, dance away the nerves that had begun to rise alongside that of the tempo her heart was racing with, and that, they had achieved, fiddling mindlessly with the delicate bracelet that clung to her slim, pale wrist. Astraea was one of the few that held the ability to crack Amara’s, otherwise, unbothered complexion, coaxing out emotions that rarely saw the light of day.

“Me too.” It was admitted in that of a mere whisper, gaze tumbling to focus upon their feet ever so fleetingly before variegated spherules lifted to the beauteous that belonged to the woman that still owned so very much of her heart, haunted it, in fact. “I suppose they require all sorts, even me, yes?”

What was there to say? What was there to do? So much could be said, done and yet, silence only dared to creak.

Amara was struggling with the desire to wrap the younger woman up in her arms in that of a tender embrace. There was a moment of clear uncertainty that was passing across her fair features, the lower of courteously painted brims taken in between her teeth and bitten as her heart and mind fought callously until the Temerian simply chose to do just as her body asked and embraced the woman in a simple but near bone-breaking hug. 

Even now, she can feel her heart pound so fast within her chest. But if it thought it was beating fast then, then she doesn’t know what the hell to call what her heart was doing now. The second that the Gors Velen sorceress wraps her in a tight embrace, she swears that her heart pounding away at her chest so quickly it could make her buzz. For a good second, the wolf doesn’t know what to do with herself or her hands. However after a moment, the werewitch lets her arms wrap around Amara.

It wasn’t that the Sorceress thought of herself as incompetent or inept when it came to her talents or intelligence, in fact, Amara was thoroughly aware of just how talented she was and how fortunate that made her but… She was, after all, someone who gained their training from an institution that the long-disbanded brotherhood disagreed with and had passionately disputed, leaving their name slandered even when it did not deserve it. 

“You mean the likes of the remaining members of the brotherhood want those with a background in regards to Rissberg for purposes other than using their unconventional methods and placing blame once backlash begins?” Whilst it had rung true, the woman had spoken with surprising playfulness, something gained with her prolonged years. 

“Yes that is exactly what I mean” replies the werewitch in turn. “We know half of these men are useless, most are blinded by ego and ambition. All try to compensate for something and always end up falling short. Which is why they ask for help yet not so directly, they call meetings like these so we all pitch in ideas they can take the glory for.” Once upon a time Astraea would’ve never voiced this. In fact she would’ve tried to look for the positives and sometimes she still does but it was evident she had done a lot of growing up.

And there was so much a werewolf that was also a witch could do. Aretuza offered her safety.

Silence had fallen upon the women, the older woman appearing to be in thought as her brows lowered and the flesh of her lips, once motionless, had begun to purse. “You are here.” It was a simple statement yet was weighted, accompanied by that of a knowing lilt as if Amara knew that a change was bound to occur. “This time, history shall not be the same, a new story for bards and history books across the continent.”

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.

“You have too much faith in me” she says quietly, swallowing thickly and licking her lips. “You always have,” the wolf turns her head slightly to look at Amara, viridescent hues studying the pale complexion of her once beloved. Still continues to be, if she was being honest. “I couldn’t possibly do much to change years of history.”

“Hmm I don’t think you’ve change much. I still see that fire in your eyes, the mischief” she says with a knowing smirks. It was a tender one. It morphs into a soft, gentle smile, nodding at the answer. She hasn’t visit Gors Velen in years, sadly. The rectoress only had the memories she carried with her of her time there.

Astraea laughs quietly, shaking her head. “I did not say you have little faith. I said you have 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 faith” the wolf says with a quirk brow. Though there was also a faint blush upon her cheeks. Fortunately — or perhaps unfortunately for them all — the meeting seems to adjourn. Everyone starts to file out but Astraea hovers for a moment, chewing gently on her bottom lip. She wants more time.

Such a fickle thing, was it not? It was potent enough to build a society or send one into ruins, and if one was fortunate enough to live, one had experienced it. Astraea’s introduction, and presence into Amara’s lift had returned her faith to some extent, allowing the Sorceress of Gors Velen to live without the bitter perspective that was often lying beneath the surface, without the hopefulness that often tried to cling, to burden. 

She had slowly turned, letting the weight of her gaze settle to quietly observe the woman before her with increasingly tender features, a distant look gliding across her sapphire hues. “You gave me something to be faithful in, an act that very few can do.” It brought life back to my bones. Words, once more, that had been left unspoken. 

“Sadly, that is something that cannot be change. In me, it was built to withstand time. Not even the those pesky, irksome witch-hunters can force the ire from my bones.” No. It simply couldn’t change. The Church of the Eternal Fire possessed talented machines of torture but even they failed to remove that fire that was buried beneath, that mischief that never seemed to leave.

A smile settles on her lips at the words and she hums softly. “I’m glad that nothing is capable of extinguishing that fire. Is one of the things I love about you.” She wished to turn and caress a pale cheek while telling her that. She does let herself look upon the sorceress from Gors Velen once more and this time she remains looking at her.

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗮 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂. She wanted to voice but instead thinks it. If Amara were to read her thoughts in that moment well —. The wolf smiles and turns, silently beginning to exit the room and lead them down the halls of Aretuza until they are at her office. It was marvel stones, bookshelves full of books and scrolls and artifacts. Two loveseats face each other in the middle and towards the back of the room is a desk, two chairs on the outside and a singular one behind the desk at the corner there was a small liquor cabinet that she heads to. “Make yourself comfortable” she says, grabbing to goblets and nice bottle of Chateau d’Adam Chevalier Pinot Blac Reserve.

As they make their way down the halls, she swears she can feel the woman’s gaze on her. A light smirk stretches upon her lips and she adds a sway her hips to make it more — enticing for the woman. Entering her office, the wolf hums softly as the sorceress from Gors Velen thanks her. With a small flick of her wrist and wave of her fingers the door closes behind them and leaves them with privacy. Astraea takes her seat by Amara, slightly closer than necessary and crosses her legs while her body faces that of the other woman’s. She gives the raven haired sorceress her glass of wine and cradles hers, leaning back against the couch. Her hand rests across the back of the couch. “No, I very much still enjoy a good ale” she says with a soft chuckle. “I thought perhaps you’d enjoy a nice wine though” she murmurs, gently, rotating her ankle.

It was a strange twist of fate, the events that had guided Yennefer forth to end up here, in the very midst of an seemingly endless crowd as those involved danced cheerfully, drinking till they reached their fill and radiated with that of untouched exuberance. Often, rumours floated about how Sorcerers and Sorceresses held an invisible string to the celebrations of Belleteyn, often lead in some way, shape or form to the festivities.

It was, supposedly, a time of celebration, assorted bonfires stacked high with the flammable material of gathered limber and fry kindling in preparation for the frolics that would ever so soon be set in motion, waiting patiently to be ignited by that of a flaming torch as the Festival of Belleteyn was to move onwards to yet another one of it’s glorious events that was often the topic spoken by countless of willing tongues.

Yennefer stood back from the gathering, remaining that of a reasonable distance as the Sorceress of Vengerberg watched on in silence with striking, amethyst hues that studied with devotion, even as a goblet of somewhat palatable ale was rested precariously on her gloved palm, the occasional sip being taken here and there.

If someone was to have mentioned that tonight of all nights would be the one that would set in place the motions of the Sorceress seeing a familiar face and setting the beginnings of something * 𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅, Yennefer would’ve called them out on their pure stupidity, their pure ridiculousness.

Yet…

It had, indeed, happened. Captured, somehow, by the movement of a mere flicker, the motions that belonged to that of a woman that’d passed. Yennefer was left uncharacteristically speechless by the sight of a familiar complexion wandering amongst the crowds that she had met once, someone that had, strangely enough, left her with a mindful of questions.

Astraea of Novigrad was a woman that had been met by chance, through that of a woman that they had both shared deep adoration for and whilst their meetings had been short, ever so effortlessly able to be counted on that of a single hand, the little werewitch was, admittedly, talented in her own right, remembered by Yennefer of Vengerberg for reasons both known and unknown. 

If the wolf was feeling ever so bold and in a particular mood, she would take on a lover. Though emerald hues take in the crowd and she couldn’t see a single person which strikes her fancy. So she drank and enjoyed the music for the most part. Sitting by one of the many fires, Astraea sips her ale at a slow pace, enjoying the taste when she hears a familiar voice. Familiar in the sense that she has heard it before, a handful of times but it was a rather difficult timbre to forget.

𝗠𝘆, 𝗺𝘆, 𝗺𝘆… 𝗜𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝘆 𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗯 𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗱?

She tilts her head, gaze landing on the raven haired woman. Shy lamb, she supposed that wasn’t so far off thought she enjoyed the irony of it since she was a wolf. There is a moment where Astraea debates on answers with something like ‘𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀?’ When the sorceress form Vengerberg asks about Lilith whereabouts. “On the path” she answer, “as all witchers always seem to be.” Unable to help herself, she scans the area, searching for another set of raven locks.

Only seconds. She had thought. It had only taken that of mere seconds for the Sorceress to begin her search, surveying the crowd for even the smallest of glimpses, Yennefer theorises. Was it concern that’d left the younger woman in search of raven locks or the shimmers of hope? Interesting …

“You won’t find her here, little one…” Yennefer had murmured dryly, the bridge of her fair nose crinkling ever so slightly as the depths of her beverage was watched, observed with befuddlement. “I heard on the grape vine that Nilfgaard holds our beloved friend, her efforts concentrated on alchemy for the ruler.”

Yennefer was rarely, if ever the type to be bothered by one’s discomfort. In fact, the Sorceress of Vengerberg had chosen the empty space that laid open, and untaken besides the younger woman, claiming it as her own as the potent scent of Lilac and Gooseberries surely invaded the Redanian’s senses unforgivingly.

𝗜𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻, 𝗜’𝗺 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲.

Now what was that supposed to mean? Her lips part as though to ask but she fall shut once more. There is not much time to dwell upon that because they are now on the subject of a certain Temerian. Her name is not spoken, it doesn’t need to be. A singular brow quirks as the dry tone with which the words are uttered and she wonders if Yennefer and Amara had parted ways less amicably than herself and the Temerian. She almost snorts at term used. ‘Beloved friend’ it is seems that the lilac eyed woman has yet to let that go. And it has been years since then but then again the sorceress from Vengerberg strikes her as someone that can hold onto things for centuries.

One could see the questions arising within the woman that Yennefer had chosen to bother, the wheels of her mind ever so loud as they turned. It was, admittedly, strangely refreshing to be in the presence of someone like Astraea. She did little in regards of insisting to hide herself from the prying gazes of those that surrounded her and didn’t hide her emotions and the questions that rose within her eyes. Yennefer, of course, knew of the questions that had gathered and had simply chosen to remain silent upon them, simply letting Astraea seek enjoyment in the festival rather than having it ruined.

“It isn’t to my taste.” Once or twice had been enough, back in the days that once held her friendship with Triss Merigold, one of the few souls alive that was able to convince Yennefer to participate in such events as this. Astraea’s nerves dripped unforgivingly, earning the tasteful arch of an manicured brow as the woman was observed, watched from the edge of Yennefer’s vision. “Stop being nervous, little wold. I would have bitten if I had desired, and obviously, I do not. We can save that for later.” 

The smell of lilac was potent, it always was of course but even more so when it was right beside her. Ever so sweet, invasive. It overtook one’s senses and she now understood why whenever Yennefer was mentioned, the color of her eyes and her smell were instantaneous thoughts which filtered through one’s mind.

Little lamb, little one, little wolf… Those were certainly choices. Rather interesting ones and it was ever so surprising that the werewitch hadn’t said anything about them. Perhaps deep down she sort of liked them. Not to mention the rather suggestive words that the raven haired woman kept throwing her way. Astraea was unsure of how to take them, unsure of Yennefer was flirting with her or being friendly. “Old habits die hard” she says after a good moment, “it seems to be an instinctive reaction around beautiful women.”

Yennefer permitted that of a velvety smooth purr to tumble forth from her parted brims, left rather pleased by the opposing woman’s chosen response. Astraea wasn’t as nearly timid as the Sorceress of Vengerberg was previously lead to believe and it was a satisfying discovery to uncover. “I see…” It was spoken in that of a lowly murmur as the older woman remained seemingly set on watching those participating in the festivities but had continued to observe, watching the younger woman from the fringe of her vision as the corner of her ever so supple lips begin to curl in that of a barely-there smirk. “You believe I’m beautiful… You have elegant taste.” 

She feels those violet eyes upon her when the sorceress decides to lay her concentration upon her. Astraea, as to not be rude, looks at the raven haired woman. The werewitch cannot help the blush that settles upon her cheeks at the compliment. “I suppose time has helped me develop some of that” she says in regards to the mentioned confidence. That questions makes her pause, staring into those vivid lilac hues while her heart beat so loud. The wolf licks on her dry lips, allowing her eyes to monetarily wander the black and white encased figure.

She has only ever seen Yennefer a handful of times and while each time she had noticed how absolutely breathtaking she was, she didn’t really take the time to appreciate it or anything else regarding the woman. See Amara was always there but now she wasn’t and both women were having a conversation around a bonfire with people drinking and — well fucking.

Such innocence this woman possessed, even after being involved with a certain Temerian that was known for creating ruins of such a quality… She could now understand the allure, the attraction that had once been felt by their friend for this little, saccharine wolf. Yennefer’s gaze was relentless, refusing to move from the woman that currently wore her interest. “It’s a blessing in disguise, after all…” Her words balanced that of a teasing inflection that rose forth, accompanied by the smouldering mischief that was etched across her features. “It gives me time to focus on the lovely ladies that seem to adorn these lands.”

She supposed that at this very moment the werewitch was the perfect combination of confidence and innocence. If there ever was one. She could feel how intensely the woman was looking at her and it made every hair on her body stand at attention. It took everything within the wolf to not shudder under it. Her hand runs along her dress lightly and she releases the softest of laughs. “What are you doing speaking to me then?” She half teased, bringing the tankard of ale up to her lips and taking a slow sip from it. Mostly to have something to do with her hand and her mouth.

It was, as it had been countless times before, another period of uncertainty for those across the continent, each kingdom brimming with concern for their own health and prosperity as the beginnings of war begun to brew, biting at their heels with weighted questions that demanded answers and effortlessly ignited fear into the hearts of those that watched on with barely bitten back trepidation. Who could have predicted yet another turn of events that could, once more, leave thousands struck by poverty as they are forced to remain upon war-torn lands that had barely begun to recuperate after the last?

Only months ago had the whispers begun, spreading the secrets regarding the conflict that was rising between the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardian Empire. It was, simply, the same story written in that of another font and with the blood of those caught between the desire to rule, conquer what was not their own.

Realisation on the severity of the situation had settled in the horizon’s once sightings of troops commencing the inevitable structure of battle stations begun to be seen across both realms, the worry of the people soon finding it’s way to the advisors of the courts. Concern had begun to bubble over and had, ever so obviously, reached that of a breaking point as a rare gathering of magical factions was commenced and lead them to this … moment.

On one hand held the number of times that the Sorceress of Gors Velen had visited the infamous establishment of Aretuza, each experience causing the woman’s opinions to sour regarding their ridiculous outlook on life in general but the standards they had set that held them back in comparison to institutions they existed beside.

Each faction had promptly arrived at the decision to call upon their greatest and brightest graduates to be present, those that outshone their peers in some way, shape or form and had, for appropriate and respectful reasons, made a name for themselves whether it was for talent or intelligence, and was known to hold their own in times of great stress and danger. Uncertain times called for those that could pull them out of it and not worsen the damage that was threatening to fall on them all.

Amara Isolda, somehow, found herself here, amongst her fellow graduates of Rissberg, old and now, in the midst of tension that could be cut with the dullest of blades and little effort. 

She had expected to see a few familiar faces in the midst of the crowd, Yennefer of Vengerberg, for an example, talented in her own right and intelligent as they could come, the savior of hundreds, if not thousands of lives for her sacrifice at Sodden and her fiery-haired friend, also known for her talent and valour in times of need for those that required it.

Isolda had chosen to linger, existing behind the crowds as they waited for the last few that were required to arrive for the beginning of this gathering to truly comment, the Temerian not overly interested in either options of divulging in a short, meaningless conversation or twisting through crowds in search for old companions for a short and perhaps tense greetings.

Back to the point at hand, however. War. Yes, of course this was a not so new arising problem that had Aretuza as well as the other factions worried. That worry and ever hovering fear is the unknown called for a meeting between all schools and their best mentees. The werewitch has to wonder if she would’ve been invited before today were she not a rectoress. She always did doubt her own magical abilities and no amount of grown up has eased such doubts all the way. Though she is far more confident in many things, experience aiding in that.

Where was she? Ah, the meeting that had been called. She could head bodies piling in, in the strategy room from her office with her enhanced hearing. She sat there for a good while before deciding to head over when arrivals began to slow down. She had no idea who to expect though the knowledge of Rissberg had her thinking of Amara. It always did even though now she knew more than one sorceress from it, having to deal with a few in her new position. Despite thinking of the raven haired sorceress who once owned her whole heart and was more or less the center of the wolf’s universe, Astraea wasn’t expecting to see her.

Walking to the grand doors, the werewitch steps in with confidence, watching first where she stepped before raising her gaze.

It was almost ludicrous to think of how many times such events had held her presence, how often they arose to calm the unnecessary tantrum that was thrown by childish sovereigns in an attempt to gain one of their desires or to make a point that was, inevitably, pointless.

Amara was old, perhaps even ancient in the eyes of those that surrounded her. She was, sadly enough, just that, only a few leagues behind that of Philippa Eilhart but her age, in this moment, served to prove a statement that so many wouldn’t realise until they were far into their first century, conflicts would not be solved unless the creators truly wanted it to be resolved.

Curiosity held her here more than duty, desiring to see the answers that her fellow Sorcerers and Sorceresses would arrive at in this current decade.

Alas, her concentration had been broken, torn from her thoughts regarding the latest tensions to tend to the weighted gaze that had settled upon her and caused her heart to seize with unbridled emotion that could be caused by only two people across the entire continent and her body to fall victim to unforgiving flames that scorched, reminded her of touches that were now absence, that of memories. Amara, similar to Astraea, didn’t need to search, gaze immediately seeking the woman responsible in only a matter of seconds and their gazes locking in a passionate embrace that’d left the older woman ever so breathless and suffering from an increase in tempo of her heart, variegated hues dancing with emotions. Astraea, all in the one moment, looked as if she hadn’t changed a single inch but had changed completely.

Her steps had been slow, brimming with uncertainly before growing meticulous as the Sorceress of Gors Velen discovered her courage and chose to approach. Was it not right to approach, and see the woman that had once held her heart? See the opposite after decades of separations that only held chance meetings that had no time for conversation as their duties caused them to continue on.

What will be said? What will happen? Not much conversation will be able to be had once the meeting begins but even being next to the raven haired woman served to strip away any of her armor. She takes a deep breath and stills herself right as the sorceress arrives and utters her name.

She was breathless and burning, worn fingers aching unforgivingly with the need to fidget, dance away the nerves that had begun to rise alongside that of the tempo her heart was racing with, and that, they had achieved, fiddling mindlessly with the delicate bracelet that clung to her slim, pale wrist. Astraea was one of the few that held the ability to crack Amara’s, otherwise, unbothered complexion, coaxing out emotions that rarely saw the light of day.

“Me too.” It was admitted in that of a mere whisper, gaze tumbling to focus upon their feet ever so fleetingly before variegated spherules lifted to the beauteous that belonged to the woman that still owned so very much of her heart, haunted it, in fact. “I suppose they require all sorts, even me, yes?”

What was there to say? What was there to do? So much could be said, done and yet, silence only dared to creak.

Amara was struggling with the desire to wrap the younger woman up in her arms in that of a tender embrace. There was a moment of clear uncertainty that was passing across her fair features, the lower of courteously painted brims taken in between her teeth and bitten as her heart and mind fought callously until the Temerian simply chose to do just as her body asked and embraced the woman in a simple but near bone-breaking hug. 

Even now, she can feel her heart pound so fast within her chest. But if it thought it was beating fast then, then she doesn’t know what the hell to call what her heart was doing now. The second that the Gors Velen sorceress wraps her in a tight embrace, she swears that her heart pounding away at her chest so quickly it could make her buzz. For a good second, the wolf doesn’t know what to do with herself or her hands. However after a moment, the werewitch lets her arms wrap around Amara.

It wasn’t that the Sorceress thought of herself as incompetent or inept when it came to her talents or intelligence, in fact, Amara was thoroughly aware of just how talented she was and how fortunate that made her but… She was, after all, someone who gained their training from an institution that the long-disbanded brotherhood disagreed with and had passionately disputed, leaving their name slandered even when it did not deserve it. 

“You mean the likes of the remaining members of the brotherhood want those with a background in regards to Rissberg for purposes other than using their unconventional methods and placing blame once backlash begins?” Whilst it had rung true, the woman had spoken with surprising playfulness, something gained with her prolonged years. 

“Yes that is exactly what I mean” replies the werewitch in turn. “We know half of these men are useless, most are blinded by ego and ambition. All try to compensate for something and always end up falling short. Which is why they ask for help yet not so directly, they call meetings like these so we all pitch in ideas they can take the glory for.” Once upon a time Astraea would’ve never voiced this. In fact she would’ve tried to look for the positives and sometimes she still does but it was evident she had done a lot of growing up.

And there was so much a werewolf that was also a witch could do. Aretuza offered her safety.

Silence had fallen upon the women, the older woman appearing to be in thought as her brows lowered and the flesh of her lips, once motionless, had begun to purse. “You are here.” It was a simple statement yet was weighted, accompanied by that of a knowing lilt as if Amara knew that a change was bound to occur. “This time, history shall not be the same, a new story for bards and history books across the continent.”

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.

“You have too much faith in me” she says quietly, swallowing thickly and licking her lips. “You always have,” the wolf turns her head slightly to look at Amara, viridescent hues studying the pale complexion of her once beloved. Still continues to be, if she was being honest. “I couldn’t possibly do much to change years of history.”

“Hmm I don’t think you’ve change much. I still see that fire in your eyes, the mischief” she says with a knowing smirks. It was a tender one. It morphs into a soft, gentle smile, nodding at the answer. She hasn’t visit Gors Velen in years, sadly. The rectoress only had the memories she carried with her of her time there.

Astraea laughs quietly, shaking her head. “I did not say you have little faith. I said you have 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 faith” the wolf says with a quirk brow. Though there was also a faint blush upon her cheeks. Fortunately — or perhaps unfortunately for them all — the meeting seems to adjourn. Everyone starts to file out but Astraea hovers for a moment, chewing gently on her bottom lip. She wants more time.

Such a fickle thing, was it not? It was potent enough to build a society or send one into ruins, and if one was fortunate enough to live, one had experienced it. Astraea’s introduction, and presence into Amara’s lift had returned her faith to some extent, allowing the Sorceress of Gors Velen to live without the bitter perspective that was often lying beneath the surface, without the hopefulness that often tried to cling, to burden. 

She had slowly turned, letting the weight of her gaze settle to quietly observe the woman before her with increasingly tender features, a distant look gliding across her sapphire hues. “You gave me something to be faithful in, an act that very few can do.” It brought life back to my bones. Words, once more, that had been left unspoken. 

“Sadly, that is something that cannot be change. In me, it was built to withstand time. Not even the those pesky, irksome witch-hunters can force the ire from my bones.” No. It simply couldn’t change. The Church of the Eternal Fire possessed talented machines of torture but even they failed to remove that fire that was buried beneath, that mischief that never seemed to leave.

A smile settles on her lips at the words and she hums softly. “I’m glad that nothing is capable of extinguishing that fire. Is one of the things I love about you.” She wished to turn and caress a pale cheek while telling her that. She does let herself look upon the sorceress from Gors Velen once more and this time she remains looking at her.

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗮 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂. She wanted to voice but instead thinks it. If Amara were to read her thoughts in that moment well —. The wolf smiles and turns, silently beginning to exit the room and lead them down the halls of Aretuza until they are at her office. It was marvel stones, bookshelves full of books and scrolls and artifacts. Two loveseats face each other in the middle and towards the back of the room is a desk, two chairs on the outside and a singular one behind the desk at the corner there was a small liquor cabinet that she heads to. “Make yourself comfortable” she says, grabbing to goblets and nice bottle of Chateau d’Adam Chevalier Pinot Blac Reserve.

Gors Velen was, for the majority, a settlement that was without pesky, troublesome complexities such as those who feverishly distasted those that they considered to be non-human and the brutal hand of resentful, bitter Witch Hunters and the Eternal Fire fanatics alike. In fact, the City of the Sea was one of those few locations on the continent that was considered to be safe, calm and protected from the lingering, gloomy cloud of crazed fanatics that lived on creating pain and chaos. And it was partly due to this that the streets were home to Sorcerers, Sorceresses and an array of races such as elves, dwarfs and half-breeds that found safety beneath the dome of protection, hidden away from conflict ridden lands where they were unwelcomed, tending to disappear beneath the unforgiving hands of fanatics. It had been the home to Amara Isolda, a charming and roughish misanthrope, since she was brought into this world and returned as an adult to purchase a sizeable piece of land that was the base to the manor that would be built, resembling the outline she and her mother had discussed in her youth before her family’s brutal death.

And it was due to the impression of safety and protection that Gors Velen radiated that had seen the pale-skinned Sorceress caught by surprise when her home had been invaded by the pitiful, stained scum more commonly known as Witch Hunters. And scum they were, the bloodsucking and stupendous ticks of the Continent. Amara had been clueless to the threat that lingered mere feet from her beloved home, observing with burning devotion driven by weighted bags of Orens and learning her routine, paying critical attention to those moments that would see her truly preoccupied and caught off-guard. Why would she expect an attack, an invasion of her home? Gors Velen was protected, the likes of Witch Hunters having no grounds or legal right to carry on their duties whilst in the borders. Such acts commonly cast from Witch Hunters and the Eternal Fire were previously unseen and unexperienced in the realm of the City of the Sea.

Chaos had descended upon the Sorceress and her home in mere moments, capturing her by utter and complete surprise as she was brutally attacked by enemies that had hidden in the dark and attacked promptly at the very moment that gave them an advantage, ensuring that the element of surprise would grant them safety, of sorts, in means of their own protection against someone who was known to be an competent and capable mage and was accustomed with acts of violence, needing little to no encouragement to protect herself in the heat of conflict. It was, repulsively, a smart move on the behalf of whoever was bestowed the title of being the leader to the unit, akin to the choice of ensuring that he was given an larger number of combatant’s to propose that of a true fight.

Seconds had seen the house in painful ruins, belongings shattered beneath the weight of the heated conflict and interior scorched, chipped and wrecked by acts of chaos and the chilling presence of death stopping in to collect souls of the fallen. And in spite of the Sorceress’s sheer determination, talent and cold, calculated proficiency at being a deadly rival, the use of an Dimeritium Bomb that released an agonising cloud of Dimeritium which promptly left the misanthrope unrightfully blocked from her magical abilities and thoroughly exhausted, drained of her energy and granted the ability for the pale-skinned woman to be cuffed in Dimeritium Cuffs that brutally ensured her magical abilities were blocked, unable to be called upon and that her body remained tiresome. Pale flesh could be seen glistening with perspiration as the effects of the Dimieritium lashed out at an unforgiving persistence at her body, hands trembling as orbs of silver peer up at her assaults with distaste, hatred. Surprisingly, time was not wasted as her mouth was gagged and her head enveloped in dark, heavy fabric that took her vision and bearings away, the woman moved into the back of a prisoner carriage and accompanied by at least two of her capturers. Gods. If only this hood granted the ability to lose her sense of smell. How could one smell so putrid? She now had an newfound respect for Geralt and every Witcher Amara had previously believed were one of the worst smelling souls to walk the Continent.

And this had only been the beginning, the sugared opening to a hellish nightmare brimming with fiendish experiences that would leave disconcerting scars of both mental and physical nature that’d assuredly haunt the Sorceress in the back of her mind to the very end of her days and leave her changed, altered beneath the punishing hands of the Continent’s finest of Solider’s who were knowledgeable in the flair of torture. It truly felt like each hour was seeing the Sorceress tortured, tormented and questioned with queries that both left her confused and enraged, each and every ounce of comfort purposely taken away to leave the woman in utter discomposure, unable to find grounding in her surroundings and the refusals or dissatisfaction to answer the questions fired upon her had seen her horrifically beaten, brutalised with the belief that it would guarantee answers on the next round. Days slowly morphed into weeks and each new day had witnessed the Sorceress covered in another round of grim, of blood that dripped down her body, drying hot and sticky on her chilled skin as her torturers hands and forearms were left coated in Amara’s blood, face haunting as they smiled wickedly and taunted the woman without pause. Armaments of torture tore, slashed through flesh and muscle like hot knives caste through butter and Dimeritium chains cut into porcelain skin, turning them raw and bloody.

She was weak, unkept and left sickened by infected wounds and the constraint strain on her body by acts of constant torture. Unbeknownst to Amara, her inability to maintain her distinctive communication had ensured that her disappearance was noticed in a matter of weeks and she was being searched for in a desperate pursuit. Was it an act of fate, utter chance or pure stupidity from careless apes that had seen the Sorceress given a chance to escape, the rusted links of Dimeritium chains giving way beneath the strain of her body’s harsh heaves and the gift of rewarding karma. Being a Sorceress that was a student and scholar reigning from the infamous institute of Rissberg gave Amara an unusual upper hand and in spite of being weakened and drained of her chaos, she called upon the remnants of her chaos that clung desperately and cast a spell of Goetia, summoning a demon from an alternate dimension and forcing it to do her bidding, fighting just enough to escape the clutches of her tormentors and taking off within the darkness of the night. It was a difficult task to run, her sight blurred and her weakened body travelling with difficulty over the uneven terrain, tripping across a fallen log that had been unseen and falling both into a ditch and unconsciousness as the need to rest, to recharge her energy won over.

Amara means so much to her. She was Astraea’s many firsts and the love she has for the sorceress she dares says is the same that said sorceress has for her own first. It is ever present and burning bright, never dwelling, never ceasing. A single utter of the woman’s name could have her heart fluttering wildly within her chest. That was the kind of love she had for the Temerian. So yes, the rectroress from Aretuza looked forward to every letter addressed to her by Rissberg graduate. So it was instantly noticed when weeks went by without a response to her letter. See, no matter what, Amara always replied, she did not simply stopped without an explanation as to why. So the Redenian grew worry. Had she perhaps said something on her last letter that upset Amara? Even so she would’ve replied, surely.

It did not feel right and a twisted feeling within her stomach formed. Perhaps she should go check on the woman, make sure she is alright. Last she heard from the sorceress, she was back in her home town, feeling safer there with all the talks of witch hunters going after them. Astraea had begged her to be careful and to take care of herself. Perhaps she would go and see if she has been. It takes little for her to decide to take the trip, letting the brotherhood know she will be absent before taking her leave. She had no time for traveling on horse, a simple portal will do. And so she creates one which leads her straight to the woman’s house.

“Don’t get startled, it’s just —” she trails off as she comes face to face with the mess that is Amara’s house. There is evidence of a break in, of a fight and her heart is instantly racing in her chest. She can smell the remnants of blood, death and Dimeritium in the air. Amidst it all, the scent of Amara remained. Her ears pero when she hears faint steps and turns with her hands up, ready for a fight when Yennefer appears around the corner.

“I sensed chaos, I thought perhaps. . .”

Astraea lowers her hands, swallowing thickly. “They took her” she whispers, voice shaky. There’s a long, heavy silence between them. “We need to find her, Yenna. I can pick up on her scent, it’s faint but it’s our only lead right now.”

“Well then little wolf, lead the way.”

They find horses and get supplies for the road before taking off in the direction that the Temerian’s scent goes towards. They ride for days, hardly stopping. When they do, they get little rest and appetites are small. How can they eat or sleep when the woman they love is in clear danger? She only prays to Melitele and every other god and goddess across the continent that Amara was still alive. At some point the Temerian’s scent grows strong and it gives her hope. They are close, they are so close. The forest is big however and it seems to be all around them. “We need to split up, we need to. . . We need to her” exhales them Redenian and hops off the horse.

Yen mutters an enchantment so they can still communicate while far away from each other and off they go. The sun was beginning to set and would be smart to camp but she can go through the darkness of the forest with her senses just fine. Her ears perk up when she hears fighting at some point during the night and — footsteps? Amara’s scent hits her ten folds and without think, turns into her wolf form, clothes ripping from her body into shreds. She takes off in the direction at full speed, her eyes take in a shadow figure before it falls out of sight. Amara.

Astraea switches back to human form, walking over to the woman. She cares not that she is naked and barefooted, her body can withstand it. “Amara” she sobs softly, “Yen I found her, get back to the horses. We can teleport then.”

“Alright, h-how is she?”

“Pretty banged up” she says, voice cracking as she picks her up gently in her arms. With all the care in the world. She cradles her, beginning her walk back. When reaching the horses, Yennefer doesn’t even question why Astraea is in the state she is at, rushing over to check on the raven haired woman currently passed out in her arms. “Can we go to your home? We need to heal her.”

It was a strange twist of fate, the events that had guided Yennefer forth to end up here, in the very midst of an seemingly endless crowd as those involved danced cheerfully, drinking till they reached their fill and radiated with that of untouched exuberance. Often, rumours floated about how Sorcerers and Sorceresses held an invisible string to the celebrations of Belleteyn, often lead in some way, shape or form to the festivities.

It was, supposedly, a time of celebration, assorted bonfires stacked high with the flammable material of gathered limber and fry kindling in preparation for the frolics that would ever so soon be set in motion, waiting patiently to be ignited by that of a flaming torch as the Festival of Belleteyn was to move onwards to yet another one of it’s glorious events that was often the topic spoken by countless of willing tongues.

Yennefer stood back from the gathering, remaining that of a reasonable distance as the Sorceress of Vengerberg watched on in silence with striking, amethyst hues that studied with devotion, even as a goblet of somewhat palatable ale was rested precariously on her gloved palm, the occasional sip being taken here and there.

If someone was to have mentioned that tonight of all nights would be the one that would set in place the motions of the Sorceress seeing a familiar face and setting the beginnings of something * 𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅, Yennefer would’ve called them out on their pure stupidity, their pure ridiculousness.

Yet…

It had, indeed, happened. Captured, somehow, by the movement of a mere flicker, the motions that belonged to that of a woman that’d passed. Yennefer was left uncharacteristically speechless by the sight of a familiar complexion wandering amongst the crowds that she had met once, someone that had, strangely enough, left her with a mindful of questions.

Astraea of Novigrad was a woman that had been met by chance, through that of a woman that they had both shared deep adoration for and whilst their meetings had been short, ever so effortlessly able to be counted on that of a single hand, the little werewitch was, admittedly, talented in her own right, remembered by Yennefer of Vengerberg for reasons both known and unknown. 

If the wolf was feeling ever so bold and in a particular mood, she would take on a lover. Though emerald hues take in the crowd and she couldn’t see a single person which strikes her fancy. So she drank and enjoyed the music for the most part. Sitting by one of the many fires, Astraea sips her ale at a slow pace, enjoying the taste when she hears a familiar voice. Familiar in the sense that she has heard it before, a handful of times but it was a rather difficult timbre to forget.

𝗠𝘆, 𝗺𝘆, 𝗺𝘆… 𝗜𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝘆 𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗯 𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗱?

She tilts her head, gaze landing on the raven haired woman. Shy lamb, she supposed that wasn’t so far off thought she enjoyed the irony of it since she was a wolf. There is a moment where Astraea debates on answers with something like ‘𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀?’ When the sorceress form Vengerberg asks about Lilith whereabouts. “On the path” she answer, “as all witchers always seem to be.” Unable to help herself, she scans the area, searching for another set of raven locks.

Only seconds. She had thought. It had only taken that of mere seconds for the Sorceress to begin her search, surveying the crowd for even the smallest of glimpses, Yennefer theorises. Was it concern that’d left the younger woman in search of raven locks or the shimmers of hope? Interesting …

“You won’t find her here, little one…” Yennefer had murmured dryly, the bridge of her fair nose crinkling ever so slightly as the depths of her beverage was watched, observed with befuddlement. “I heard on the grape vine that Nilfgaard holds our beloved friend, her efforts concentrated on alchemy for the ruler.”

Yennefer was rarely, if ever the type to be bothered by one’s discomfort. In fact, the Sorceress of Vengerberg had chosen the empty space that laid open, and untaken besides the younger woman, claiming it as her own as the potent scent of Lilac and Gooseberries surely invaded the Redanian’s senses unforgivingly.

𝗜𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻, 𝗜’𝗺 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲.

Now what was that supposed to mean? Her lips part as though to ask but she fall shut once more. There is not much time to dwell upon that because they are now on the subject of a certain Temerian. Her name is not spoken, it doesn’t need to be. A singular brow quirks as the dry tone with which the words are uttered and she wonders if Yennefer and Amara had parted ways less amicably than herself and the Temerian. She almost snorts at term used. ‘Beloved friend’ it is seems that the lilac eyed woman has yet to let that go. And it has been years since then but then again the sorceress from Vengerberg strikes her as someone that can hold onto things for centuries.

One could see the questions arising within the woman that Yennefer had chosen to bother, the wheels of her mind ever so loud as they turned. It was, admittedly, strangely refreshing to be in the presence of someone like Astraea. She did little in regards of insisting to hide herself from the prying gazes of those that surrounded her and didn’t hide her emotions and the questions that rose within her eyes. Yennefer, of course, knew of the questions that had gathered and had simply chosen to remain silent upon them, simply letting Astraea seek enjoyment in the festival rather than having it ruined.

“It isn’t to my taste.” Once or twice had been enough, back in the days that once held her friendship with Triss Merigold, one of the few souls alive that was able to convince Yennefer to participate in such events as this. Astraea’s nerves dripped unforgivingly, earning the tasteful arch of an manicured brow as the woman was observed, watched from the edge of Yennefer’s vision. “Stop being nervous, little wold. I would have bitten if I had desired, and obviously, I do not. We can save that for later.” 

The smell of lilac was potent, it always was of course but even more so when it was right beside her. Ever so sweet, invasive. It overtook one’s senses and she now understood why whenever Yennefer was mentioned, the color of her eyes and her smell were instantaneous thoughts which filtered through one’s mind.

Little lamb, little one, little wolf… Those were certainly choices. Rather interesting ones and it was ever so surprising that the werewitch hadn’t said anything about them. Perhaps deep down she sort of liked them. Not to mention the rather suggestive words that the raven haired woman kept throwing her way. Astraea was unsure of how to take them, unsure of Yennefer was flirting with her or being friendly. “Old habits die hard” she says after a good moment, “it seems to be an instinctive reaction around beautiful women.”

Yennefer permitted that of a velvety smooth purr to tumble forth from her parted brims, left rather pleased by the opposing woman’s chosen response. Astraea wasn’t as nearly timid as the Sorceress of Vengerberg was previously lead to believe and it was a satisfying discovery to uncover. “I see…” It was spoken in that of a lowly murmur as the older woman remained seemingly set on watching those participating in the festivities but had continued to observe, watching the younger woman from the fringe of her vision as the corner of her ever so supple lips begin to curl in that of a barely-there smirk. “You believe I’m beautiful… You have elegant taste.” 

She feels those violet eyes upon her when the sorceress decides to lay her concentration upon her. Astraea, as to not be rude, looks at the raven haired woman. The werewitch cannot help the blush that settles upon her cheeks at the compliment. “I suppose time has helped me develop some of that” she says in regards to the mentioned confidence. That questions makes her pause, staring into those vivid lilac hues while her heart beat so loud. The wolf licks on her dry lips, allowing her eyes to monetarily wander the black and white encased figure.

She has only ever seen Yennefer a handful of times and while each time she had noticed how absolutely breathtaking she was, she didn’t really take the time to appreciate it or anything else regarding the woman. See Amara was always there but now she wasn’t and both women were having a conversation around a bonfire with people drinking and — well fucking.

It was, as it had been countless times before, another period of uncertainty for those across the continent, each kingdom brimming with concern for their own health and prosperity as the beginnings of war begun to brew, biting at their heels with weighted questions that demanded answers and effortlessly ignited fear into the hearts of those that watched on with barely bitten back trepidation. Who could have predicted yet another turn of events that could, once more, leave thousands struck by poverty as they are forced to remain upon war-torn lands that had barely begun to recuperate after the last?

Only months ago had the whispers begun, spreading the secrets regarding the conflict that was rising between the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardian Empire. It was, simply, the same story written in that of another font and with the blood of those caught between the desire to rule, conquer what was not their own.

Realisation on the severity of the situation had settled in the horizon’s once sightings of troops commencing the inevitable structure of battle stations begun to be seen across both realms, the worry of the people soon finding it’s way to the advisors of the courts. Concern had begun to bubble over and had, ever so obviously, reached that of a breaking point as a rare gathering of magical factions was commenced and lead them to this … moment.

On one hand held the number of times that the Sorceress of Gors Velen had visited the infamous establishment of Aretuza, each experience causing the woman’s opinions to sour regarding their ridiculous outlook on life in general but the standards they had set that held them back in comparison to institutions they existed beside.

Each faction had promptly arrived at the decision to call upon their greatest and brightest graduates to be present, those that outshone their peers in some way, shape or form and had, for appropriate and respectful reasons, made a name for themselves whether it was for talent or intelligence, and was known to hold their own in times of great stress and danger. Uncertain times called for those that could pull them out of it and not worsen the damage that was threatening to fall on them all.

Amara Isolda, somehow, found herself here, amongst her fellow graduates of Rissberg, old and now, in the midst of tension that could be cut with the dullest of blades and little effort. 

She had expected to see a few familiar faces in the midst of the crowd, Yennefer of Vengerberg, for an example, talented in her own right and intelligent as they could come, the savior of hundreds, if not thousands of lives for her sacrifice at Sodden and her fiery-haired friend, also known for her talent and valour in times of need for those that required it.

Isolda had chosen to linger, existing behind the crowds as they waited for the last few that were required to arrive for the beginning of this gathering to truly comment, the Temerian not overly interested in either options of divulging in a short, meaningless conversation or twisting through crowds in search for old companions for a short and perhaps tense greetings.

Back to the point at hand, however. War. Yes, of course this was a not so new arising problem that had Aretuza as well as the other factions worried. That worry and ever hovering fear is the unknown called for a meeting between all schools and their best mentees. The werewitch has to wonder if she would’ve been invited before today were she not a rectoress. She always did doubt her own magical abilities and no amount of grown up has eased such doubts all the way. Though she is far more confident in many things, experience aiding in that.

Where was she? Ah, the meeting that had been called. She could head bodies piling in, in the strategy room from her office with her enhanced hearing. She sat there for a good while before deciding to head over when arrivals began to slow down. She had no idea who to expect though the knowledge of Rissberg had her thinking of Amara. It always did even though now she knew more than one sorceress from it, having to deal with a few in her new position. Despite thinking of the raven haired sorceress who once owned her whole heart and was more or less the center of the wolf’s universe, Astraea wasn’t expecting to see her.

Walking to the grand doors, the werewitch steps in with confidence, watching first where she stepped before raising her gaze.

It was almost ludicrous to think of how many times such events had held her presence, how often they arose to calm the unnecessary tantrum that was thrown by childish sovereigns in an attempt to gain one of their desires or to make a point that was, inevitably, pointless.

Amara was old, perhaps even ancient in the eyes of those that surrounded her. She was, sadly enough, just that, only a few leagues behind that of Philippa Eilhart but her age, in this moment, served to prove a statement that so many wouldn’t realise until they were far into their first century, conflicts would not be solved unless the creators truly wanted it to be resolved.

Curiosity held her here more than duty, desiring to see the answers that her fellow Sorcerers and Sorceresses would arrive at in this current decade.

Alas, her concentration had been broken, torn from her thoughts regarding the latest tensions to tend to the weighted gaze that had settled upon her and caused her heart to seize with unbridled emotion that could be caused by only two people across the entire continent and her body to fall victim to unforgiving flames that scorched, reminded her of touches that were now absence, that of memories. Amara, similar to Astraea, didn’t need to search, gaze immediately seeking the woman responsible in only a matter of seconds and their gazes locking in a passionate embrace that’d left the older woman ever so breathless and suffering from an increase in tempo of her heart, variegated hues dancing with emotions. Astraea, all in the one moment, looked as if she hadn’t changed a single inch but had changed completely.

Her steps had been slow, brimming with uncertainly before growing meticulous as the Sorceress of Gors Velen discovered her courage and chose to approach. Was it not right to approach, and see the woman that had once held her heart? See the opposite after decades of separations that only held chance meetings that had no time for conversation as their duties caused them to continue on.

What will be said? What will happen? Not much conversation will be able to be had once the meeting begins but even being next to the raven haired woman served to strip away any of her armor. She takes a deep breath and stills herself right as the sorceress arrives and utters her name.

She was breathless and burning, worn fingers aching unforgivingly with the need to fidget, dance away the nerves that had begun to rise alongside that of the tempo her heart was racing with, and that, they had achieved, fiddling mindlessly with the delicate bracelet that clung to her slim, pale wrist. Astraea was one of the few that held the ability to crack Amara’s, otherwise, unbothered complexion, coaxing out emotions that rarely saw the light of day.

“Me too.” It was admitted in that of a mere whisper, gaze tumbling to focus upon their feet ever so fleetingly before variegated spherules lifted to the beauteous that belonged to the woman that still owned so very much of her heart, haunted it, in fact. “I suppose they require all sorts, even me, yes?”

What was there to say? What was there to do? So much could be said, done and yet, silence only dared to creak.

Amara was struggling with the desire to wrap the younger woman up in her arms in that of a tender embrace. There was a moment of clear uncertainty that was passing across her fair features, the lower of courteously painted brims taken in between her teeth and bitten as her heart and mind fought callously until the Temerian simply chose to do just as her body asked and embraced the woman in a simple but near bone-breaking hug. 

Even now, she can feel her heart pound so fast within her chest. But if it thought it was beating fast then, then she doesn’t know what the hell to call what her heart was doing now. The second that the Gors Velen sorceress wraps her in a tight embrace, she swears that her heart pounding away at her chest so quickly it could make her buzz. For a good second, the wolf doesn’t know what to do with herself or her hands. However after a moment, the werewitch lets her arms wrap around Amara.

It wasn’t that the Sorceress thought of herself as incompetent or inept when it came to her talents or intelligence, in fact, Amara was thoroughly aware of just how talented she was and how fortunate that made her but… She was, after all, someone who gained their training from an institution that the long-disbanded brotherhood disagreed with and had passionately disputed, leaving their name slandered even when it did not deserve it. 

“You mean the likes of the remaining members of the brotherhood want those with a background in regards to Rissberg for purposes other than using their unconventional methods and placing blame once backlash begins?” Whilst it had rung true, the woman had spoken with surprising playfulness, something gained with her prolonged years. 

“Yes that is exactly what I mean” replies the werewitch in turn. “We know half of these men are useless, most are blinded by ego and ambition. All try to compensate for something and always end up falling short. Which is why they ask for help yet not so directly, they call meetings like these so we all pitch in ideas they can take the glory for.” Once upon a time Astraea would’ve never voiced this. In fact she would’ve tried to look for the positives and sometimes she still does but it was evident she had done a lot of growing up.

And there was so much a werewolf that was also a witch could do. Aretuza offered her safety.

Silence had fallen upon the women, the older woman appearing to be in thought as her brows lowered and the flesh of her lips, once motionless, had begun to purse. “You are here.” It was a simple statement yet was weighted, accompanied by that of a knowing lilt as if Amara knew that a change was bound to occur. “This time, history shall not be the same, a new story for bards and history books across the continent.”

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.

“You have too much faith in me” she says quietly, swallowing thickly and licking her lips. “You always have,” the wolf turns her head slightly to look at Amara, viridescent hues studying the pale complexion of her once beloved. Still continues to be, if she was being honest. “I couldn’t possibly do much to change years of history.”

“Hmm I don’t think you’ve change much. I still see that fire in your eyes, the mischief” she says with a knowing smirks. It was a tender one. It morphs into a soft, gentle smile, nodding at the answer. She hasn’t visit Gors Velen in years, sadly. The rectoress only had the memories she carried with her of her time there.

Astraea laughs quietly, shaking her head. “I did not say you have little faith. I said you have 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 faith” the wolf says with a quirk brow. Though there was also a faint blush upon her cheeks. Fortunately — or perhaps unfortunately for them all — the meeting seems to adjourn. Everyone starts to file out but Astraea hovers for a moment, chewing gently on her bottom lip. She wants more time.

It was, as it had been countless times before, another period of uncertainty for those across the continent, each kingdom brimming with concern for their own health and prosperity as the beginnings of war begun to brew, biting at their heels with weighted questions that demanded answers and effortlessly ignited fear into the hearts of those that watched on with barely bitten back trepidation. Who could have predicted yet another turn of events that could, once more, leave thousands struck by poverty as they are forced to remain upon war-torn lands that had barely begun to recuperate after the last?

Only months ago had the whispers begun, spreading the secrets regarding the conflict that was rising between the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardian Empire. It was, simply, the same story written in that of another font and with the blood of those caught between the desire to rule, conquer what was not their own.

Realisation on the severity of the situation had settled in the horizon’s once sightings of troops commencing the inevitable structure of battle stations begun to be seen across both realms, the worry of the people soon finding it’s way to the advisors of the courts. Concern had begun to bubble over and had, ever so obviously, reached that of a breaking point as a rare gathering of magical factions was commenced and lead them to this … moment.

On one hand held the number of times that the Sorceress of Gors Velen had visited the infamous establishment of Aretuza, each experience causing the woman’s opinions to sour regarding their ridiculous outlook on life in general but the standards they had set that held them back in comparison to institutions they existed beside.

Each faction had promptly arrived at the decision to call upon their greatest and brightest graduates to be present, those that outshone their peers in some way, shape or form and had, for appropriate and respectful reasons, made a name for themselves whether it was for talent or intelligence, and was known to hold their own in times of great stress and danger. Uncertain times called for those that could pull them out of it and not worsen the damage that was threatening to fall on them all.

Amara Isolda, somehow, found herself here, amongst her fellow graduates of Rissberg, old and now, in the midst of tension that could be cut with the dullest of blades and little effort. 

She had expected to see a few familiar faces in the midst of the crowd, Yennefer of Vengerberg, for an example, talented in her own right and intelligent as they could come, the savior of hundreds, if not thousands of lives for her sacrifice at Sodden and her fiery-haired friend, also known for her talent and valour in times of need for those that required it.

Isolda had chosen to linger, existing behind the crowds as they waited for the last few that were required to arrive for the beginning of this gathering to truly comment, the Temerian not overly interested in either options of divulging in a short, meaningless conversation or twisting through crowds in search for old companions for a short and perhaps tense greetings.

Back to the point at hand, however. War. Yes, of course this was a not so new arising problem that had Aretuza as well as the other factions worried. That worry and ever hovering fear is the unknown called for a meeting between all schools and their best mentees. The werewitch has to wonder if she would’ve been invited before today were she not a rectoress. She always did doubt her own magical abilities and no amount of grown up has eased such doubts all the way. Though she is far more confident in many things, experience aiding in that.

Where was she? Ah, the meeting that had been called. She could head bodies piling in, in the strategy room from her office with her enhanced hearing. She sat there for a good while before deciding to head over when arrivals began to slow down. She had no idea who to expect though the knowledge of Rissberg had her thinking of Amara. It always did even though now she knew more than one sorceress from it, having to deal with a few in her new position. Despite thinking of the raven haired sorceress who once owned her whole heart and was more or less the center of the wolf’s universe, Astraea wasn’t expecting to see her.

Walking to the grand doors, the werewitch steps in with confidence, watching first where she stepped before raising her gaze.

It was almost ludicrous to think of how many times such events had held her presence, how often they arose to calm the unnecessary tantrum that was thrown by childish sovereigns in an attempt to gain one of their desires or to make a point that was, inevitably, pointless.

Amara was old, perhaps even ancient in the eyes of those that surrounded her. She was, sadly enough, just that, only a few leagues behind that of Philippa Eilhart but her age, in this moment, served to prove a statement that so many wouldn’t realise until they were far into their first century, conflicts would not be solved unless the creators truly wanted it to be resolved.

Curiosity held her here more than duty, desiring to see the answers that her fellow Sorcerers and Sorceresses would arrive at in this current decade.

Alas, her concentration had been broken, torn from her thoughts regarding the latest tensions to tend to the weighted gaze that had settled upon her and caused her heart to seize with unbridled emotion that could be caused by only two people across the entire continent and her body to fall victim to unforgiving flames that scorched, reminded her of touches that were now absence, that of memories. Amara, similar to Astraea, didn’t need to search, gaze immediately seeking the woman responsible in only a matter of seconds and their gazes locking in a passionate embrace that’d left the older woman ever so breathless and suffering from an increase in tempo of her heart, variegated hues dancing with emotions. Astraea, all in the one moment, looked as if she hadn’t changed a single inch but had changed completely.

Her steps had been slow, brimming with uncertainly before growing meticulous as the Sorceress of Gors Velen discovered her courage and chose to approach. Was it not right to approach, and see the woman that had once held her heart? See the opposite after decades of separations that only held chance meetings that had no time for conversation as their duties caused them to continue on.

What will be said? What will happen? Not much conversation will be able to be had once the meeting begins but even being next to the raven haired woman served to strip away any of her armor. She takes a deep breath and stills herself right as the sorceress arrives and utters her name.

She was breathless and burning, worn fingers aching unforgivingly with the need to fidget, dance away the nerves that had begun to rise alongside that of the tempo her heart was racing with, and that, they had achieved, fiddling mindlessly with the delicate bracelet that clung to her slim, pale wrist. Astraea was one of the few that held the ability to crack Amara’s, otherwise, unbothered complexion, coaxing out emotions that rarely saw the light of day.

“Me too.” It was admitted in that of a mere whisper, gaze tumbling to focus upon their feet ever so fleetingly before variegated spherules lifted to the beauteous that belonged to the woman that still owned so very much of her heart, haunted it, in fact. “I suppose they require all sorts, even me, yes?”

What was there to say? What was there to do? So much could be said, done and yet, silence only dared to creak.

Amara was struggling with the desire to wrap the younger woman up in her arms in that of a tender embrace. There was a moment of clear uncertainty that was passing across her fair features, the lower of courteously painted brims taken in between her teeth and bitten as her heart and mind fought callously until the Temerian simply chose to do just as her body asked and embraced the woman in a simple but near bone-breaking hug. 

Even now, she can feel her heart pound so fast within her chest. But if it thought it was beating fast then, then she doesn’t know what the hell to call what her heart was doing now. The second that the Gors Velen sorceress wraps her in a tight embrace, she swears that her heart pounding away at her chest so quickly it could make her buzz. For a good second, the wolf doesn’t know what to do with herself or her hands. However after a moment, the werewitch lets her arms wrap around Amara.

It wasn’t that the Sorceress thought of herself as incompetent or inept when it came to her talents or intelligence, in fact, Amara was thoroughly aware of just how talented she was and how fortunate that made her but… She was, after all, someone who gained their training from an institution that the long-disbanded brotherhood disagreed with and had passionately disputed, leaving their name slandered even when it did not deserve it. 

“You mean the likes of the remaining members of the brotherhood want those with a background in regards to Rissberg for purposes other than using their unconventional methods and placing blame once backlash begins?” Whilst it had rung true, the woman had spoken with surprising playfulness, something gained with her prolonged years. 

“Yes that is exactly what I mean” replies the werewitch in turn. “We know half of these men are useless, most are blinded by ego and ambition. All try to compensate for something and always end up falling short. Which is why they ask for help yet not so directly, they call meetings like these so we all pitch in ideas they can take the glory for.” Once upon a time Astraea would’ve never voiced this. In fact she would’ve tried to look for the positives and sometimes she still does but it was evident she had done a lot of growing up.

And there was so much a werewolf that was also a witch could do. Aretuza offered her safety.

Silence had fallen upon the women, the older woman appearing to be in thought as her brows lowered and the flesh of her lips, once motionless, had begun to purse. “You are here.” It was a simple statement yet was weighted, accompanied by that of a knowing lilt as if Amara knew that a change was bound to occur. “This time, history shall not be the same, a new story for bards and history books across the continent.”

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.

“You have too much faith in me” she says quietly, swallowing thickly and licking her lips. “You always have,” the wolf turns her head slightly to look at Amara, viridescent hues studying the pale complexion of her once beloved. Still continues to be, if she was being honest. “I couldn’t possibly do much to change years of history.”

It was, as it had been countless times before, another period of uncertainty for those across the continent, each kingdom brimming with concern for their own health and prosperity as the beginnings of war begun to brew, biting at their heels with weighted questions that demanded answers and effortlessly ignited fear into the hearts of those that watched on with barely bitten back trepidation. Who could have predicted yet another turn of events that could, once more, leave thousands struck by poverty as they are forced to remain upon war-torn lands that had barely begun to recuperate after the last?

Only months ago had the whispers begun, spreading the secrets regarding the conflict that was rising between the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardian Empire. It was, simply, the same story written in that of another font and with the blood of those caught between the desire to rule, conquer what was not their own.

Realisation on the severity of the situation had settled in the horizon’s once sightings of troops commencing the inevitable structure of battle stations begun to be seen across both realms, the worry of the people soon finding it’s way to the advisors of the courts. Concern had begun to bubble over and had, ever so obviously, reached that of a breaking point as a rare gathering of magical factions was commenced and lead them to this … moment.

On one hand held the number of times that the Sorceress of Gors Velen had visited the infamous establishment of Aretuza, each experience causing the woman’s opinions to sour regarding their ridiculous outlook on life in general but the standards they had set that held them back in comparison to institutions they existed beside.

Each faction had promptly arrived at the decision to call upon their greatest and brightest graduates to be present, those that outshone their peers in some way, shape or form and had, for appropriate and respectful reasons, made a name for themselves whether it was for talent or intelligence, and was known to hold their own in times of great stress and danger. Uncertain times called for those that could pull them out of it and not worsen the damage that was threatening to fall on them all.

Amara Isolda, somehow, found herself here, amongst her fellow graduates of Rissberg, old and now, in the midst of tension that could be cut with the dullest of blades and little effort. 

She had expected to see a few familiar faces in the midst of the crowd, Yennefer of Vengerberg, for an example, talented in her own right and intelligent as they could come, the savior of hundreds, if not thousands of lives for her sacrifice at Sodden and her fiery-haired friend, also known for her talent and valour in times of need for those that required it.

Isolda had chosen to linger, existing behind the crowds as they waited for the last few that were required to arrive for the beginning of this gathering to truly comment, the Temerian not overly interested in either options of divulging in a short, meaningless conversation or twisting through crowds in search for old companions for a short and perhaps tense greetings.

Back to the point at hand, however. War. Yes, of course this was a not so new arising problem that had Aretuza as well as the other factions worried. That worry and ever hovering fear is the unknown called for a meeting between all schools and their best mentees. The werewitch has to wonder if she would’ve been invited before today were she not a rectoress. She always did doubt her own magical abilities and no amount of grown up has eased such doubts all the way. Though she is far more confident in many things, experience aiding in that.

Where was she? Ah, the meeting that had been called. She could head bodies piling in, in the strategy room from her office with her enhanced hearing. She sat there for a good while before deciding to head over when arrivals began to slow down. She had no idea who to expect though the knowledge of Rissberg had her thinking of Amara. It always did even though now she knew more than one sorceress from it, having to deal with a few in her new position. Despite thinking of the raven haired sorceress who once owned her whole heart and was more or less the center of the wolf’s universe, Astraea wasn’t expecting to see her.

Walking to the grand doors, the werewitch steps in with confidence, watching first where she stepped before raising her gaze.

It was almost ludicrous to think of how many times such events had held her presence, how often they arose to calm the unnecessary tantrum that was thrown by childish sovereigns in an attempt to gain one of their desires or to make a point that was, inevitably, pointless.

Amara was old, perhaps even ancient in the eyes of those that surrounded her. She was, sadly enough, just that, only a few leagues behind that of Philippa Eilhart but her age, in this moment, served to prove a statement that so many wouldn’t realise until they were far into their first century, conflicts would not be solved unless the creators truly wanted it to be resolved.

Curiosity held her here more than duty, desiring to see the answers that her fellow Sorcerers and Sorceresses would arrive at in this current decade.

Alas, her concentration had been broken, torn from her thoughts regarding the latest tensions to tend to the weighted gaze that had settled upon her and caused her heart to seize with unbridled emotion that could be caused by only two people across the entire continent and her body to fall victim to unforgiving flames that scorched, reminded her of touches that were now absence, that of memories. Amara, similar to Astraea, didn’t need to search, gaze immediately seeking the woman responsible in only a matter of seconds and their gazes locking in a passionate embrace that’d left the older woman ever so breathless and suffering from an increase in tempo of her heart, variegated hues dancing with emotions. Astraea, all in the one moment, looked as if she hadn’t changed a single inch but had changed completely.

Her steps had been slow, brimming with uncertainly before growing meticulous as the Sorceress of Gors Velen discovered her courage and chose to approach. Was it not right to approach, and see the woman that had once held her heart? See the opposite after decades of separations that only held chance meetings that had no time for conversation as their duties caused them to continue on.

What will be said? What will happen? Not much conversation will be able to be had once the meeting begins but even being next to the raven haired woman served to strip away any of her armor. She takes a deep breath and stills herself right as the sorceress arrives and utters her name.

She was breathless and burning, worn fingers aching unforgivingly with the need to fidget, dance away the nerves that had begun to rise alongside that of the tempo her heart was racing with, and that, they had achieved, fiddling mindlessly with the delicate bracelet that clung to her slim, pale wrist. Astraea was one of the few that held the ability to crack Amara’s, otherwise, unbothered complexion, coaxing out emotions that rarely saw the light of day.

“Me too.” It was admitted in that of a mere whisper, gaze tumbling to focus upon their feet ever so fleetingly before variegated spherules lifted to the beauteous that belonged to the woman that still owned so very much of her heart, haunted it, in fact. “I suppose they require all sorts, even me, yes?”

What was there to say? What was there to do? So much could be said, done and yet, silence only dared to creak.

Amara was struggling with the desire to wrap the younger woman up in her arms in that of a tender embrace. There was a moment of clear uncertainty that was passing across her fair features, the lower of courteously painted brims taken in between her teeth and bitten as her heart and mind fought callously until the Temerian simply chose to do just as her body asked and embraced the woman in a simple but near bone-breaking hug. 

Even now, she can feel her heart pound so fast within her chest. But if it thought it was beating fast then, then she doesn’t know what the hell to call what her heart was doing now. The second that the Gors Velen sorceress wraps her in a tight embrace, she swears that her heart pounding away at her chest so quickly it could make her buzz. For a good second, the wolf doesn’t know what to do with herself or her hands. However after a moment, the werewitch lets her arms wrap around Amara.

It wasn’t that the Sorceress thought of herself as incompetent or inept when it came to her talents or intelligence, in fact, Amara was thoroughly aware of just how talented she was and how fortunate that made her but… She was, after all, someone who gained their training from an institution that the long-disbanded brotherhood disagreed with and had passionately disputed, leaving their name slandered even when it did not deserve it. 

“You mean the likes of the remaining members of the brotherhood want those with a background in regards to Rissberg for purposes other than using their unconventional methods and placing blame once backlash begins?” Whilst it had rung true, the woman had spoken with surprising playfulness, something gained with her prolonged years. 

“Yes that is exactly what I mean” replies the werewitch in turn. “We know half of these men are useless, most are blinded by ego and ambition. All try to compensate for something and always end up falling short. Which is why they ask for help yet not so directly, they call meetings like these so we all pitch in ideas they can take the glory for.” Once upon a time Astraea would’ve never voiced this. In fact she would’ve tried to look for the positives and sometimes she still does but it was evident she had done a lot of growing up.

And there was so much a werewolf that was also a witch could do. Aretuza offered her safety.

It was, as it had been countless times before, another period of uncertainty for those across the continent, each kingdom brimming with concern for their own health and prosperity as the beginnings of war begun to brew, biting at their heels with weighted questions that demanded answers and effortlessly ignited fear into the hearts of those that watched on with barely bitten back trepidation. Who could have predicted yet another turn of events that could, once more, leave thousands struck by poverty as they are forced to remain upon war-torn lands that had barely begun to recuperate after the last?

Only months ago had the whispers begun, spreading the secrets regarding the conflict that was rising between the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardian Empire. It was, simply, the same story written in that of another font and with the blood of those caught between the desire to rule, conquer what was not their own.

Realisation on the severity of the situation had settled in the horizon’s once sightings of troops commencing the inevitable structure of battle stations begun to be seen across both realms, the worry of the people soon finding it’s way to the advisors of the courts. Concern had begun to bubble over and had, ever so obviously, reached that of a breaking point as a rare gathering of magical factions was commenced and lead them to this … moment.

On one hand held the number of times that the Sorceress of Gors Velen had visited the infamous establishment of Aretuza, each experience causing the woman’s opinions to sour regarding their ridiculous outlook on life in general but the standards they had set that held them back in comparison to institutions they existed beside.

Each faction had promptly arrived at the decision to call upon their greatest and brightest graduates to be present, those that outshone their peers in some way, shape or form and had, for appropriate and respectful reasons, made a name for themselves whether it was for talent or intelligence, and was known to hold their own in times of great stress and danger. Uncertain times called for those that could pull them out of it and not worsen the damage that was threatening to fall on them all.

Amara Isolda, somehow, found herself here, amongst her fellow graduates of Rissberg, old and now, in the midst of tension that could be cut with the dullest of blades and little effort. 

She had expected to see a few familiar faces in the midst of the crowd, Yennefer of Vengerberg, for an example, talented in her own right and intelligent as they could come, the savior of hundreds, if not thousands of lives for her sacrifice at Sodden and her fiery-haired friend, also known for her talent and valour in times of need for those that required it.

Isolda had chosen to linger, existing behind the crowds as they waited for the last few that were required to arrive for the beginning of this gathering to truly comment, the Temerian not overly interested in either options of divulging in a short, meaningless conversation or twisting through crowds in search for old companions for a short and perhaps tense greetings.

Back to the point at hand, however. War. Yes, of course this was a not so new arising problem that had Aretuza as well as the other factions worried. That worry and ever hovering fear is the unknown called for a meeting between all schools and their best mentees. The werewitch has to wonder if she would’ve been invited before today were she not a rectoress. She always did doubt her own magical abilities and no amount of grown up has eased such doubts all the way. Though she is far more confident in many things, experience aiding in that.

Where was she? Ah, the meeting that had been called. She could head bodies piling in, in the strategy room from her office with her enhanced hearing. She sat there for a good while before deciding to head over when arrivals began to slow down. She had no idea who to expect though the knowledge of Rissberg had her thinking of Amara. It always did even though now she knew more than one sorceress from it, having to deal with a few in her new position. Despite thinking of the raven haired sorceress who once owned her whole heart and was more or less the center of the wolf’s universe, Astraea wasn’t expecting to see her.

Walking to the grand doors, the werewitch steps in with confidence, watching first where she stepped before raising her gaze.

It was almost ludicrous to think of how many times such events had held her presence, how often they arose to calm the unnecessary tantrum that was thrown by childish sovereigns in an attempt to gain one of their desires or to make a point that was, inevitably, pointless.

Amara was old, perhaps even ancient in the eyes of those that surrounded her. She was, sadly enough, just that, only a few leagues behind that of Philippa Eilhart but her age, in this moment, served to prove a statement that so many wouldn’t realise until they were far into their first century, conflicts would not be solved unless the creators truly wanted it to be resolved.

Curiosity held her here more than duty, desiring to see the answers that her fellow Sorcerers and Sorceresses would arrive at in this current decade.

Alas, her concentration had been broken, torn from her thoughts regarding the latest tensions to tend to the weighted gaze that had settled upon her and caused her heart to seize with unbridled emotion that could be caused by only two people across the entire continent and her body to fall victim to unforgiving flames that scorched, reminded her of touches that were now absence, that of memories. Amara, similar to Astraea, didn’t need to search, gaze immediately seeking the woman responsible in only a matter of seconds and their gazes locking in a passionate embrace that’d left the older woman ever so breathless and suffering from an increase in tempo of her heart, variegated hues dancing with emotions. Astraea, all in the one moment, looked as if she hadn’t changed a single inch but had changed completely.

Her steps had been slow, brimming with uncertainly before growing meticulous as the Sorceress of Gors Velen discovered her courage and chose to approach. Was it not right to approach, and see the woman that had once held her heart? See the opposite after decades of separations that only held chance meetings that had no time for conversation as their duties caused them to continue on.

What will be said? What will happen? Not much conversation will be able to be had once the meeting begins but even being next to the raven haired woman served to strip away any of her armor. She takes a deep breath and stills herself right as the sorceress arrives and utters her name.

She was breathless and burning, worn fingers aching unforgivingly with the need to fidget, dance away the nerves that had begun to rise alongside that of the tempo her heart was racing with, and that, they had achieved, fiddling mindlessly with the delicate bracelet that clung to her slim, pale wrist. Astraea was one of the few that held the ability to crack Amara’s, otherwise, unbothered complexion, coaxing out emotions that rarely saw the light of day.

“Me too.” It was admitted in that of a mere whisper, gaze tumbling to focus upon their feet ever so fleetingly before variegated spherules lifted to the beauteous that belonged to the woman that still owned so very much of her heart, haunted it, in fact. “I suppose they require all sorts, even me, yes?”

What was there to say? What was there to do? So much could be said, done and yet, silence only dared to creak.

Amara was struggling with the desire to wrap the younger woman up in her arms in that of a tender embrace. There was a moment of clear uncertainty that was passing across her fair features, the lower of courteously painted brims taken in between her teeth and bitten as her heart and mind fought callously until the Temerian simply chose to do just as her body asked and embraced the woman in a simple but near bone-breaking hug. 

Even now, she can feel her heart pound so fast within her chest. But if it thought it was beating fast then, then she doesn’t know what the hell to call what her heart was doing now. The second that the Gors Velen sorceress wraps her in a tight embrace, she swears that her heart pounding away at her chest so quickly it could make her buzz. For a good second, the wolf doesn’t know what to do with herself or her hands. However after a moment, the werewitch lets her arms wrap around Amara.

It wasn’t that the Sorceress thought of herself as incompetent or inept when it came to her talents or intelligence, in fact, Amara was thoroughly aware of just how talented she was and how fortunate that made her but… She was, after all, someone who gained their training from an institution that the long-disbanded brotherhood disagreed with and had passionately disputed, leaving their name slandered even when it did not deserve it. 

“You mean the likes of the remaining members of the brotherhood want those with a background in regards to Rissberg for purposes other than using their unconventional methods and placing blame once backlash begins?” Whilst it had rung true, the woman had spoken with surprising playfulness, something gained with her prolonged years. 

“Yes that is exactly what I mean” replies the werewitch in turn. “We know half of these men are useless, most are blinded by ego and ambition. All try to compensate for something and always end up falling short. Which is why they ask for help yet not so directly, they call meetings like these so we all pitch in ideas they can take the glory for.” Once upon a time Astraea would’ve never voiced this. In fact she would’ve tried to look for the positives and sometimes she still does but it was evident she had done a lot of growing up.

And there was so much a werewolf that was also a witch could do. Aretuza offered her safety.