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Vanessa come and look at this.

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if you don’t terrify people a little bit then what’s the point.

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Yennefer of Vengerberg

Wasnt sure if finishing this one or Captain Phasma, I guess Phasma its next.

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Two weeks since their reunion had passed, and she found herself embodying the excitement as well as the impatience that she felt in something of an ethereal glow. All seemed to be well; Fjandi was safe and unhurt, away from every thing that meant her harm; Aldric was here, with them, and the likelihood that she could steal the witcher away for this, if only for a short time, appeared doable. She shelved what guilt she felt if only for Fjandi's sake. Too soon, one might have said was it for her to set out on this adventure, and yet the enchantress would not take any chances— not if it meant doing everything within her power to keep her daughter of Chaos safe and alive. She preferred to harness what power she could, now, before what most she feared once more came calling for them... And even though she deigned neither think nor speak of it — or her— she was not foolish enough to truly allow herself believe Morgante would not come for them; no matter how long it might take her to track them down.

Last night, the sorceress, after demanding the Witcher meet her here come the morn, proclaiming him the very best of trackers and herself in dire need of his skills, had then went on to pack a basket full of herbs and potions meant to aid the Witcher track the creature she was after, for their travels. The place of power she wanted to take the witcher was a few miles east, so they would be traveling on horseback; she was still recovering from the floods of dimeritium the Eternal Fire had flown into her bloodstream, and the fact this Witcher of hers absolutely detested portals had not somehow escaped her memory. Standing in the stable area, now, swathed in a sable black cloak and with her violet eyes blazing like a river of purple mist in the sunlight, Nereinne pressed her palm to a restless mare’s flank, soothing her, “a'caelme tedd...” she whispered the incarnation in Elder, tiny flickers of magic spilling from her fingertips in wisps of lilac light as she soothed the animal; she moved next to Aldric's horse, readying it, too, for their travels. “easy, Kix... He won't be too long now...” she uses her magic to conjure up a treat for the mare, delicately offering it up as she awaits his arrival, “ if he values certain parts of his body, that is... and what shall we name this one, hm? ” she indicates the mare she intends to ride herself, gloved hand still caressing Kix's mane. Gods, was she now, too, talking to horses? Perhaps surviving capture by the Flames had left her short of a marble, after all!

@ofgradobor

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In her life, the sorceress has learned that, despite all fierce, determined intentions or efforts, sometimes the world falls short of providing any tangible relief ; in spite of the deep comfort that the knowledge that her daughter is safe, alive and away from everything that means her harm, provides, still, some part of her is missing: the witcher is not here, with them. It is a cutting void that nothing else could ever fill, his absence, keenly felt, despite the unbridled joy the girl brings her, here, at the end of the world, after everything they have been through together, and even in her present state, frail and weakened by days of abuses to her body, still, not one night goes past that she does not come down to the port to wait for him to come to her; she knows he will. And as she's done from first she left her bed after arriving to the island to the last, this sleepless night too, comes she down to the harbour to wait, sitting herself upon the bridge overlooking the mouth of the bay.

There is a dream-like quality that falls over her, embellished by the sound of the waves crashing against the dock and the moonlight that spills in through the harbor. Swathed in black silks and furs, the sorceress buries her gaze into the frothing ocean before her, eyes the colour of lilacs staring off into the distance as she stoically waits and waits and waits for him to come back to her, just as she had all those years ago upon that mountainside; this time, she refuses to give up on him. This time, she knows— gods, with all her heart, she does— that he, too, won't walk away; not after everything it took to find one another.

She sighs, familiar disappointment and frustration gnawing at her chest like a trapped animal, scratching to get out, as the hour grows later, and just as she begins to believe her anguish lacks any remedy, hope takes flight within her concave heart as another boat arrives into the port. She's a frantic, wild thing as she hastily pulls herself to her feet and fixes a piercing gaze upon the pier, frantically searching for him amidst the crowd as passengers begin to disembark the ship; and then, in a moment that suspends belief, she finds that which she's been looking for. Her eyes, she hopes, do not deceive her.  Rounding with understanding, with a hope that surely cannot be matched, she sees him there, broad of chest and rugged, still wearing his battered mail, with one hand balanced lazily on the pommel of his sword. He's here; he's real, he's come back to her; the enchantress can scarcely breathe from the pure shock of the realization.

Without even realizing it, the sorceress holds her breath, the sharp inhale catching as she runs down to the pier, slim legs setting motion to the flowing shapes of her skirts as she makes her way to her witcher, and with a gasp, she is throwing herself at him, arms wrapping around his frame and pulling him into a furious embrace, hands gripping desperately at the planes of his back. She buries her face into his chest, and takes her time to breathe him in, his name parting her lips in a breathless whisper.

In this moment, she pushes forward, palms caressing the sides of his neck.  She leans up on her heels, violet eyes never once straying from their counterparts.  Nereinne leans up, and without an ounce of hesitation, she presses her lips against his with a fervor that goes unmatched:  firm, enduring, and indicative of an unspoken promise, she reiterates the bond that neither can untie. Like a once-taut rope being cut from its perpetual suspension, she fervently presses herself into the warmth of his body, breath spilling in sharp, wet gasps as she captures his mouth with hers again and again, as though she is drowning and he warm breath in her lungs. His lips are soft and inviting, reminding Nereinne just how much she has missed him. The pad of her thumb soon brushes against his skin, committing tactile memories to the farthest corners of her mind.  The kiss sustains, and it is only after she is withdrawn by the prerequisite of breath that she dispels soft words from behind her teeth. “you came...” she whispers against his lips as she presses her forehead against his, heavy-lidded violet eyes revealing behind long, dark lashes.  Her expression can only be described as exultant.

@ofgradobor

[offwilds]

Amidst thick furs lays the sorceress, frail body riddled with remnants of dimeritium. Though dimly, she recognizes her voice somewhere that feels too far away from her in her dreamlike state, she doesn't quite possess the consciousness to truly understand.  All the sorceress knows is that Fjandi is here; she is alive.  This figure in front of her that comes into view as violet eyes flutter open, must surely be her – that is, if her mind isn't purposefully masquerading something much more malignant.  She breathes in, comforted by the proximity of a familiar scent.  It is uniquely her daughter's (pine, wood, a mixture of herbs, the forest … fire ).  A soft, dazed smile curls upon her lips at the sensation, and violently is she then jolted awake and drawn out of her reverie, and with an anguished groan, she draws herself onto her hands to sit up in this strange bed she does not recognize, a sharp, shrill gasp of pure shock intermingled with unimaginable relief soon parting her lips as she instinctively throws her arms around Fjandi, seeking to draw her into a fierce hug, whispering her name.

The warmth of this daughter of hers envelopes her instantly, filling her with a gentleness not often glimpsed in the sorceress.  Fingers wind themselves in soft hair, brushing unruly strands away so that she may lay her eyes upon the girl.  Violet eyes sweeping over her as a smile spreads across her face, and Nereinne's heart skips a beat.  Though she did not bear the child of surprise, her heart deems the girl as her very own: her own creation, her responsibility, the grandest achievement of them all, to hold and keep her safe, to guide her chaos and teach her the ways to control it. Though fate may be cruel and take many a thing away, it can also be kind. She's here, with her, unharmed, alive. The enchantress can scarcely believe it. “my little one! are you alright?” she whispers in disbelief, frantically sweeping her eyes and hands over her to make sure she's completely unhurt from everything that has transpired from the time she was captured from the Flames to the moment she passed out on that boat taking them away and to Skellige. She feels her eyes water with tears. A kiss is placed on the spot her tear falls up on her daughters head, lips lingering a moment before pulling away to cup the young girl's face in her hands.  Her thumb brushes across the curve of her cheek and the sorceress smiles before placing another warm kiss upon her forehead.

@sircnum

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“ Gods DAMNIT ! ” Her concentration was breaking. Her violet eyes were blazing— refracting the storm of purple light that was flashing before her— and the moonstone that hung about her neck was glowing as raven curls twisted about in the air from the force of her spell. Pride screamed louder than reason; too soon it was for the sorceress to even deign attempt cast such a spell, but she knew she could do this. She must. She had to— she would not take any chances. If she meant to keep Fjandi safe, this time, she would have to be smarter than that which sought to consume them whole: Morgante.

The barrier of her spell still surrounded the room where she stood. The pair of staffs embedded on either side of herself, sparking and crackling as her magic poured in and out of it. She shot a net of light forth, using her Chaos to shape the light into a sphere within which she meant to glimpse where she is, desperately trying to maintain her casting, but soon her hands began to tremble, and with a sharp, cold gasp, she dropped her hands to her sides, letting the spell wane as the force of her magic sent her stumbling backwards and into the witcher, surging like a flood-wave, filling the room like a silver mist.

@vengncfm

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“She was reckless. An unyielding storm. And you’d count your lucky stars if you got caught up in her.”

— Nicole Torres 

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reworking Yen’s ‘wild and curly hair ‘ mod

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“Her ancient gestures, her perfume, the infinite intimacy of her rage,”

— Christina Peri-Rossi, tr. by Carol Thickstunt, from “The Bacchante,”   (via feestje)

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Penny Dreadful, 2015

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“I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (via theliteraryjournals)

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The Witcher 3 concept art: Skellige

The rocky and inhospitable Skellige archipelago is made up of six larger and several dozen smaller isles and islets, each buffeted by the cold gales and pounding waves of the Great Sea. This is a land of looming cliffs, brisk streams, and dark pine forests full of dangers just waiting to pounce on the unwary traveler.

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Eva Green as Morgan in Camelot

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didn’t ask plus i’m casting fireball in your direction