On their search to find a Djinn, Yennefer had dragged them from the city to a tiny little boat out to sea and, for the first time in a long time, they were alone. It was quiet, peaceful almost--if she didn't stop to think about the reason they were here. She had dragged Geralt on this expedition the way she'd dragged him into most of her "projects"--by simply telling him what she planned to do and expecting him to follow along. That he had not denied her was, at least, a good sign that the years that had stretched between them and all that time away had not broken them completely.

They had had little time to talk since they'd reunited, what with the search for Ciri and the all-consuming threat of the Wild Hunt. Now, Yennefer leaned back against the bow of the fishing boat, her long legs stretched out in front of her, clad in black leather as always, black boots crossed at the ankle. She eyed Geralt silently, searching for new scars, searching his thoughts--though she knew by now how much he detested when she did that. She was far too proud to simply ask if he'd missed her, if he still loved her. While everything inside her ached, her outward expression remained haughty and unruffled.

HOME WAS WHERE THE HEART WAS - It was a famed expression, one that maybe at one point in his time in this world held meaning and sense to him - but now - it meant little. He had no heart, he had no home, he had nothing now. Foolish wishes had brought him the wildest dreams beyond a mortal reach, but each one had come at a price - a price he had thought he was more than willing to pay. His brother’s life for riches beyond his wildest dreams, it was a heavy price, but one he paid and thus his brother had perished. It was always bound to happen, he was young and reckless and took too many chances, he was always destined to die young - why not benefit from it at least. Yet his second wish, that for immortality for him and his beloved - it was that wish that had made him what he was today and it was that wish that he cursed himself for ever making. “It is not as I remember --”  He cast his eyes on his home. It once was the talk of all kingdoms for its beauty and for the man that once lived there, but now it was nothing more than a ruin. At least the walls still remained high and the gate sealed. He walked around, viewing it with his own eyes for the first time in years as he spotted a breach in the wall - a heavy sigh escaped him, no matter what - there were always fools out there who lusted for wealth and gold - not knowing that this place - was locked for a reason. He climbed through, with ease - this was his home after all, he knew each stone as if it were his own child. His merry band of bandits remained behind, to bring them with him beyond this wall would be to doom them all to there graves. He jumped down, his feet hitting the ground with a light thud as he walked forward - the gardens - they were kept it seemed, well maintained - it seemed the spirits still did the tasks they were commanded to do as he looked down at the soil - freshly turned as well and more than that - near the flowers and bushes - freshly laid graves of foolish bandits - it was the sign he needed to see - there was darkness still here and with that darkness the woman he had doomed to this fate no doubt lingered. “I believe I have already overstayed my welcome.”

"If the doom of this place is your doing, surely you can be its resurrection." Yennefer looked quite unbothered as she stepped through the hole in the fence--more concerned about the mud on her boots than the prospect of angry spirits and cursed manors. Nor did she look back at the men Olgierd had left behind. That he wished to spare them what lie ahead was surely a poor omen, and yet, Yennefer simply thought it wise: humans were, after all, so terribly clumsy and difficult to keep alive.

She had heard stories of this place, of course. Anyone who'd been through the area had heard the rumors, the ghostly tales and the warnings. And Yennefer made it her business to know what was happening in every corner of the land, to seek out dangers before they found her, and to stay one step ahead of whatever local chaos might be brewing. Of course, she did not usually take the time to stop and fix these problems either. That was Geralt's job, not hers: to rid the world of curses and monsters in exchange for petty coin.

This place, however, had caught her attention for another reason. Perhaps she was a romantic underneath it all, swept up in the tale of an old love gone so wrong, or maybe she simply wished to set free the woman that was said to be stuck here. Or maybe she just saw it as a challenge.

Yennefer was not in the habit of helping strangers. The way she saw it, you did what you had to in this dangerous and dark world, and that was that; survival often required sacrifice. She was on the hunt for her daughter, yet do to a reckless overuse of trackable magic, she was now being hunted herself by some of the most dangerous beings in all the land: hoards of elven warriors on skeleton horses, the ground turning to frost wherever their feet touched the ground. The Wild Hunt.

Not so long ago, Yen had lived in castles, serving kings and collecting fine jewels and gowns. Now, she was camped out under a willow tree, using her own black and white cloak as a sort of tent before the rain began. And the Wild Hunt was not the only threat to her, nor the only reason she was now on the run. She watched from the shade of the tree as the Witch Hunters went by, some on horseback, some walking in heavy armor. They had a look to them, each and every one, as if they smelled blood and wanted nothing more than to sink their teeth into their next victim. They were not likely to be real vampires, but they were just as ruthless, just as cruel.

"Keep your hood up." Yennefer spoke with a mother's bark, her voice weary and on edge as she pulled the hood of Ciri's cloak up and over her tell-tale ashen hair. She herself was dressed--as always--in black but with a hood to shield her own raven locks, violet eyes kept low so as not to raise suspicion. They had finally found Ciri--she and Geralt working in harmony--and, most fortunately, located her before the Wild Hunt could. Yet, the danger was far from over.

"So this is the place." Yennefer clicked her tongue as she stepped further inside, her hand sliding over the newly painted walls. "My, my, Our little bard, an entrepreneur. You really are all grown up now, aren't you?" Yen had never been the type to dole out compliments--her praise was rare and shelled out in small doses, as if too much joy and fuzzy feelings might strip the words of all meaning. But she was proud of Jaskier, and her deep violet eyes shone with something that might have been affection. The Chameleon was thriving--and, what was more, it was classy. There was a feeling of true culture about it, a place where she could imagine artists thriving, rather than simply a place of carnal pleasures--not that Yennefer would have taken issue with such a place either. She was no blushing bride, after all.