@lastwished​ asked: “ i don’t need the world to see that i’ve been the best i can be. ” for ciri if you're writing her atm ♥

Does it hurt, though? She cannot help but wonder. Cannot help but ask the question in her mind, and she knows the sorceress can hear it because she makes sure that she can. Does it hurt to know that you are judged so harshly?

Ciri doesn’t know what to say, truly, and so instead she only weaves her fingers through gloved hands, the feeling of soft black velvet against her calloused skin. She frowns at the earth and wonders. She loves her family -- all of them. Her uncles and her sister, but their dissent does not go unnoticed. It frustrates her, and she wishes family was more cooperative.

@lastwished​ asked: ❛   Everything I’ve done…I’ve done to keep you safe.   ❜ @ ciri ♥

It’s the one thing that’s been able to calm her since the locals began to spit and curse at her mother. Ciri has been ready to fight since it all began, her claws drawn and teeth bared and anger sharpened into a knife. It is obvious in the way she paces like a caged lioness, waiting, inviting someone else to say something to give her a reason to throw them to the ground or bring her dagger to their throat. Green eyes burn brightly against the black of her eyes. It is defiant. It is a challenge, and no one wants to take her up on it. She is death.

And yet, the Lady of Vengerberg speaks and her hackles lower. She remembers where she is, trying to carve out happy moments with the sorceress that are long overdue. She pouts like the child who wanted to stay up past her bedtime. She looks away sheepishly.

“It’s not fair,” She insists, and the guilt bubbles up from her stomach into her throat. Lady Yennefer deserves better than this. What she’s done has saved them all, and just because she had to doesn’t mean she wants to. It’s an ugly lesson she has learned over time, and keeps learning, too. Nobody cares to understand as badly as she might want to make them. She knows, and Lady Yennefer should not have to justify it to anyone. It’s her fault, not her mothers. The way she thinks it is plainly, though there is no way her mother wouldn’t be able to understand it.

    “Hey,” she begins, voice quiet and fishing a packet of smokes out of her coat pocket. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a light, have ya? I think I left mine stashed at home.”

what made you start wanting to roleplay?

hmmm... well, i started rping on neopets i think, so probably i saw the cool kids doing it and wanted to be like them lmao. but i think i always just loved to write and when i was, yeah, on neopets or wherever i would see people rping with each other and i thought it was just super cool, a fun way to write stories, so i got into it. and here i am like 9000 years later!

are there any characters you’re interested in wanting to roleplay as?

no one currently that isn’t getting written somewhere!

give us a headcanon about your muse that you never shared to anyone else or wanting to explore deeper.

ummmmm. i don’t think there’s really any of these... like there’s definitely stuff i don’t usually talk about, because i prefer to keep it in the background of jane’s story, but it hasn’t gone Totally Unsaid. it’s usually rare for me to have stuff i never talk about ever

She pulls her sheet around herself protectively, eyes firmly fixed on the screen in front of her. Assire is watching every single one of Yennefer’s movements, in awe of the steadiness of her hands, the certainty in her voice. Everything about her is perfect, her hair, her nails, her makeup, and it sends Assire into a state of existential dread that has her retreat deeper into the security of the covers. All that remains visible is her eyes, large and full of apprehension, a handful of stray, rather greasy curls.  

An odd assortment of items is visible on the nightstand beside her, empty cups and open books, a stray plastic fork, a tangle of cords – chargers, cables, headphones, carelessly discarded breakfast bar wrappers.

“What if they’re horrible to me? I’m not like them.” She lets herself collapse backwards onto the bed, her phone’s camera catching a flash of pyjama pants, a washed out no longer quite black with a crescent moon and stars pattern. “Yenna, they scare me. What if I say something wrong, like, something super weird? What if they laugh at me?”

Her voice is small and worried, half muffled by the sheet that she has now pulled entirely over her head. 

“I haven’t even showered or anything.” 

She stretches, utters a sound that’s half hum half sigh, abruptly pulls away the sheet and sits bolt upright, her t-shirt is creased and frayed at the shoulder. Assire tugs at the hem, casts a furtive glance at her phone.

Assire tilts her head, first to the left, then to the right, her fingertips hovering just above the cards spread out in front of her. She is acutely aware of Yennefer, sitting across from her at the dining room table, watching her as she examines the spread. There is a lingering sense of unease here, so faint as to be almost intangible and yet unmistakably present. But there is something else, too, that feeling that she cannot name, that seizes hold of her whenever she brings out her cards. 

In another life, she would have called this the holy spirit, perhaps. She no longer believes in that concept, of course – she cannot allow herself to believe in it, lest her thoughts lead her astray onto a path that is altogether too complicated to walk a second time. The feeling, however, is real. It is as if a light has come on inside of her, illuminating her thoughts with a certain clarity, sharp like a knife, ineluctable.

“Okay.” Assire takes a deep breath, placing her hands on the table in front of her then immediately moving them to her lap. She does not want Yennefer to see her nails, ragged as they are. She’s trying her best not to bite them anymore, but it has been a long day, a long week, a long month, and her anxiety keeps on getting the better of her.

There’s a devilish grin on her face as she twirls a strand of hair around her index finger, light glinting off the heavy golden chainlink bracelet she wears around her wrist. 

“Whatever do you think of me, dear? I haven’t keyed a car since I was, what… twenty-three? Unless you count… no, that definitely didn’t count. That was purely accidental. Never anything as exciting as a Ferrari, either. I think I peaked at keying a Mercedes.” 

Her smile grows a little wider, her expression nostalgic for a moment. Philippa picks up her cup, drinks, cringing a little at the fact that her coffee has gone all but completely cold. 

“That was the moment when I first understood what true empowerment felt like, I think. I wish I still had that kind of… unbridled enthusiasm, to be perfectly honest. Do you ever feel that everything is becoming… I don’t know, dulled, as you get older?” 

She finishes her drink, placing the cup back on the table ever so carefully, watching the remnants of the coffee grounds settle into seemingly random patterns. Some people say that those can tell one’s future, but she’s entirely too sensible, too realistic, to believe in such things.