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minne-cerbinna · 10 months

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I think quite often of the optional little dialogue tree that one can get about Yaevinn in TW2 with an imported save if one sides with Iorveth, and particularly of just how Iorveth describes Yaevinn

The dialogue prompt "I once knew another Scoia'tael - Yaevinn." will lead to the following exchange:

GERALT: I once met another Scoia'tael leader.

IORVETH: Yaevinn. I knew him. He had beautiful dreams and desperately wanted me to share them. Asked the same of you, I heard.

GERALT: You know a lot about me.

IORVETH: I try to know as much as I can - about everyone.

They'll elaborate a little further in this dialogue about how they both agree with Yaevinn's reasons and the fact that Yaevinn "saw combat and killing as poetry" which Iorveth deems unrealistic because "war is prose, with no place for beauty" (how poetic).

But the interesting part to me is the statement that Yaevinn had "beautiful dreams" and how he was this grand idealist, because this seems to be in contradiction with Yaevinn's characterisation. In his novel appearance, he argues against Toruviel's idealism as he proposes shooting the unarmed messenger. In TW1, Geralt refers to him in his journal as being "disillusioned", as well as being "a cynic and a pragmatist", neither of which seem to hold with Iorveth's account. While this can be credited to the fact that it's possible that Iorveth's past-tense statement of "I knew him" means that he hasn't seen Yaevinn in some time rather than, or at least in addition to, the implied death. He has perhaps not seen him since the Second Northern War, where they were both in the Vrihedd brigade, and Yaevinn could have grown more cynical since the Scoia'tael were betrayed by Dol Blathanna, his earliest characterisation is that of the novel canon, and he does not present a particular idealism that would reflect the notion that he is a dreamer.

It can be taken as a choice of characterisation, because for all that Yaevinn is disillusioned, he does have his hopes and desires for the future and his plans at Vizima, just as Iorveth has his hopes for Saskia and Vergen. He has these dreams, even if he tenders them close to his chest and puts the practical aspects first before he allows himself to have this hope. And I think that is a really interesting interpretation, to have this juxtaposition, that he can be both disillusioned and a dreamer, and that he chose a scant few, Iorveth, and then Geralt, to share in those precious dreams.

The notion of Yaevinn having these "beautiful dreams" is also very pertinent to his TW1 characterisation, I think, because there are optional dialogues in which Yaevinn tells the accounts of how he once lived among humans and believed in assimilation, that the humans would accept the elves if given enough time, only to be persecuted and harassed at length until he finally accepted that there was no place for him there, that there could be no assimilation, only annihilation. And even though he knows it is a hopeless fight, he still proceeds onward. He knows his people are dying, and he knows that if they do not act quickly, they will be well and truly doomed to extinction, but he is still trying to fight. That is, in and of itself, an expression of a dream for a better future, even if he thinks it hopeless, or, as Iorveth criticises, unrealistic.

Serious character analysis aside, I think that the absolute funniest interpretation of this dialogue is that it is not to be taken literally about Yaevinn's idealism or lack thereof, but rather as a euphemism -- taking "beautiful dreams" as a euphemism for queer romantic interest; hence "he had beautiful dreams and desperately wanted me to share them" is something like "he likes men and asked me to be his lover", "I hear he asked the same of you" thenceforth meaning something like "were you also his lover/do you also like men" (and the response "you know a lot about me" therefore indicating that he is correct in his judgement). There's like a whole rebellion going on but Iorveth is just checking out his options, y'know.

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tennara-art · 6 months

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Dol Blathanna

#the witcher #the witcher fanart #francesca findabair #elf art #artists on tumblr #my art #art #fanart #artwork #illustration #ida emean aep sivney

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serenfire · 10 months

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attention, anyone who cares about the witcher s3's character's motivations with regards to the books but who hasn't then read time of contempt, here is a post for you!

here's some interesting differences between the book and show characters, especially in ep 5 (spoilers for the witcher s3 so far and the books):

since yennefer does not have her s2 beef w aretuza subplot, none of the mages are her direct enemies, and she is a member of the lower circle of leadership within the brotherhood, called the council, with philippa and 3 others who are not in the show. she is also not the one who calls the conclave; she finds out about it while bringing ciri to aretuza, and attends with geralt so that they can draw out the mage who is backing rience. in the book, they're trying to convinced everyone that ciri died at cintra, and haven't been together since then to keep up the illusion, so going to aretuza together will draw out the mage who knows ciri exists and is trying to kill her

vilgefortz is, firstly, the hero of sodden in the books. he's the war hero against nilfgaard, and one of the leaders of the brotherhood. he's also (spoilers for probably the second half of s3) working for nilfgaard now, and not in the way that s1 portrays where he kills his comrade on the battlefield after the battle's over, but in an "even the hero of sodden who singlehandedly saved the north from nilfgaard wants power enough to ally with his enemy" way.

he is the leader of the chapter, which is the highest circle of leadership of the brotherhood. tissaia and francesca findabair are also members, as well as artaud terranova (guy who falls over the champagne glass table in ep 5). in ep 5 he recounts his backstory to geralt, some of it word-for-word, except for an important part: as part of his backstory, he fell in love with an unnamed mage before becoming a sorcerer, and after breaking up with her, decided he should pursue magic. he and tissaia are not together! i cannot stress this enough, in the books the mages are powered by their individual searches for power, and love does not tie them together! it's what sets yen apart: she's one of the only ones willing to sacrifice for another.

FRANCESCA FINDABAIR. member of the chapter/high ranked aretuza member, in the book shows up to the conclave party early, stirring up the northern vs nilfgaardian sentiments by being there. wild that she hasn't appeared there in the show yet. her motives in the show are WHACK. in the books she did not have a baby and did not say she wants to genocide the humans (although that is propaganda against her): she leads the scoia'tael to fight for nonhuman freedom and allies herself with nilfgaard to continue to fight the north, and she will receive a free land for the elves (dol blathanna) in return for the scoia'tael being branded as war criminals and outlawed. in the books she is the catch-22 of stuck between a rock and a hard place: allying with imperialism will save her people but gut her guerilla soldiers who fought for it.

philippa eilhart is so far the best-written character this season (to me) because she is one of the only characters who everyone knows is seeking for power (in the book she's referred to as the one who's really on the redanian throne, backed by dijkstra) and she, directly, says that she's looking to keep power in the north. in the books, most if not every mage's motivations are for power, whether in a king's court or by allying with nilfgaard, and the imperial machinations are what the politics in the books are about, so having a character not be preoccupied with interpersonal reasons and instead directly embody this is refreshing!

however! in the books philippa's position is anti-nilfgaardian invasion, not anti-brotherhood. she's pitted against vilgefortz, who's allied with nilfgaard, instead of against him because he's a leader of the brotherhood. the brotherhood as an institution isn't interrogated as a state (unlike the northern kingdoms and nilfgaard), and her specific grievances against other court mages have to do with the fact that almost every kingdom is goading nilfgaard to attack so they can attack back and vie for power. she's also got redania on a lockdown by killing vizimir right before the conclave party and i don't know how this will play out in the show considering radovid exists as well

also in the books radovid is vizimir's son who ascends to the throne after philippa and dijkstra kill vizimir, and (in the games) he makes it his life mission to kill philippa. he does not physically show up in time of contempt and adding him into the show as vizimir's brother 1) crunches the timeline down to a period of time that makes a bit more sense than the books and 2) allows the show to make up the funniest fucking subplot with jaskier. oh my god none of that happened in the books but wouldn't it have been hilarious. jaskier hooking up with the sweet and sensitive younger prince who's a fan of his music and then smash cut to twelve hours later and he's the fucking king of redania. the comedy potential is unmatched

#i am not including cahir because i fogor. he doesn't show up in TOC but it makes sense for his s3 content to happen in his backstory #that was a lot of words i hope y'all enjoy the parallels. i don't think the show portrays politics as a result of relationships well but #the show does politics as a result of power well. and there's a bit of both this season #but in the books it is exclusively politics as a result of power #the witcher spoilers #the witcher #the witcher netflix #time of contempt #the witcher meta

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kuwdora · 3 months

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parable of the hostages witcher book canon Tissaia/Francesca, background Tissaia/Rita rated M, ~1900 words canon divergent AU angst, injury recovery, references to past suicides.

After Tissaia is rescued by Francesca at Thanedd, she finds herself at a crossroads.

Tissaia convalesces on the veranda with her mug of tea. This was no infirmary at Aretuza, and the Temple of Melitele was humble in the shadow of Dol Blathanna’s palatial beauty that has been ravaged by the hands of men and time. The valley below is a vision of autumn’s reckoning; mountain slopes dappled with trees of ochre and crimson and desiccated leaves idle in the dry riverbed.

The silence is a deafening pressure in Tissaia’s ears, but she doesn’t miss the sounds of the coast.

She loses herself, staring into the slowly-changing valley as the sun drags itself across the sky. Behind her the footfalls jostle Tissaia from stillness. It was time for the nursemaid visit. Something that happened every other day because Tissaia was, as she was told, a priority in the Queen's busy schedule. These visits had been infuriating and exhausting as Francesca attempted to litigate the events of Thanedd.

Francesca arrives with her ocelot companion trotting ahead of her. The small feline pads over to Tissaia and scents her chair and blanket with its face and gives her a silent stare. Tissaia remains still and unblinking, idly tracing the roundness of its ears and spots with her eyes.

"Good afternoon, Tissaia," Francesca says.

How Tissaia longs for peace.

Gone was the young student Tissaia had known at Aretuza. Gone was her colleague, her friend, and the lover who had cared enough to insert herself in Tissaia’s life time and time again with a regularity and casualness that Tissaia had come to appreciate. But that was before Thanedd.

Here was Enid an Glenna, the Daisy of the Valley. A leader to her people. As poised and incisive as the woman Tissaia once intimately knew, but she was still Francesca to Tissaia.

The mid-afternoon air was still quite warm but Tissaia adjusts the blanket in her lap. The circulation in her lower body was still quite poor and she was forced to wear layers regardless of the temperature. Tissaia had expended her Chaos and nearly depleted her life. It left her body in shambles. The amulet Francesca’s healer had donned upon Tissaia reduced the inflammation in her joints and helped regulate her body temperature, but it could only do so much.

She had considered tossing the amulet aside and reopen the bandages before Francesca or her servants could return.

Tissaia was—is—is, she keeps reminding herself—the oldest sorceress on the Continent, and for the last few weeks she has felt every one of her years. But Tissaia knew, as her eyes roamed the openness of the valley, her eyes drawn to the craggy line of mountain and yellowing grasses, she would not allow herself to be found in such a state. Wearing clothes that were not her own. In Francesca’s home. Being attended by Francesca’s servants. No, Tissaia would not open the bandages. She couldn’t. She was trapped.

The ache lingers in her chest, that loss of her dignity.

Francesca settles in the chair beside Tissaia and the ocelat slinks away and settles on a rug to bathe in the afternoon sun. In Francesca's lap was a box with elegant handles and elven knotwork burned into the wood.

“I have something for you.” read on ao3

#heyyyooo i did not spiral with this and overedit. i still have many more thoughts that i did not fit into this story but this is a start!#writing and yeeting what a concept omg #witcher femslash #witcher rarepair #tissaia de vries #francesca findabair #my fic #my witcher fic

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limerental · 6 months

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pointing at isengrim and iorveth like. wdym these are essentially the same character.

no no these two weird elves with disfiguring facial scars who were scoia'tael commanders in the vriheed brigade that escaped their execution after the peace of cintra and had fraught relationships with dol blathanna elves and engaged in nasty little tortures against humans in the woods.... are vastly different characters.

#and yes i can fully articulate the difference #but i'm normal today and i wont #iorveth #isengrim faoiltiarna

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hanzajesthanza · 1 year

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Happy birthday!!! 🎉🎉🎂🎂🥳🥳🥳 Hope you're having a wonderful day!!!

thank you!! i am :D

#ask #dol--blathanna

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nightwingshero · 2 years

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It's empty in the valley of your heart The sun, it rises slowly as you walk Away from all the fears And all the faults you've left behind The harvest left no food for you to eat You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see But I have seen the same I know the shame in your defeat But I will hold on hope And I won't let you choke On the noose around your neck And I'll find strength in pain And I will change my ways I'll know my name as it's called again

The Cave - Mumford & Sons

Thela of Dol Blathanna

#oc: thela of dol blathanna #the witcher #the witcher oc #my ocs #my moodboards

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jaskierror · 10 months

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in ways that can't be said — chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE — SNORES & SNORTS

Geralt, a very tired and very overworked librarian, finds an eccentrically dressed man asleep in the library right as they're about to close.

Jaskier, a very tired and very overworked educator at the local museum, accidentally falls asleep in a library whilst doing research for an upcoming exhibit and is awoken by a devastatingly attractive librarian.

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By the time closing rolled around, Geralt really, truly, honestly just wanted to go home.

In general, Geralt preferred to not work closing shifts. The library stayed open until 7pm most evenings, but he liked to be home with Ciri as early as possible; Lambert was always happy to watch her until Geralt got off work, given that Lambert’s job in Dol Blathanna’s Public Works department wasn’t a traditional 9-to-5, but, well. Geralt missed his daughter, is all, and was perhaps a bit clingy when it came to her. Sue him for loving his kid.

Despite his reluctance to work past 5pm, Renfri had caught the flu, and Geralt had agreed to cover her shift while she recovered, meaning he would be at the library until about 7:30. Of course, by the time it was half past 5, he was itching to get home—by then, he would normally be pulling into his driveway in Upper Posada, and Ciri would be running outside to greet him while Lambert watched them with poorly disguised fondness from the front porch. He would pick his daughter up, balance her on his hip, ask her about her day at school and what she and her Uncle Lambert had been up to since she got home. He would get to kiss her on her forehead, and cook dinner (lately, she had become a big fan of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets), and—

Anyway. Enough of that.

The minutes and hours ticked by with relentless, deliberate slowness, and Geralt felt nothing but relief when it was finally, finally time to start closing. Zoltan offered to organize the information desk and the front seating areas while Geralt swept the shelves for any stragglers and re-shelved any books sitting around.

Geralt worked quickly, eager to finish up and return home—in the back of his mind, he wondered what Lambert and Ciri had eaten for dinner—and he was returning a book of traditional Temerian recipes to its rightful shelf when he heard…

Well.

It seemed to be somewhere between a snore and a snort, in all honesty, and Geralt could only sigh deeply and brace himself before rounding the corner.

He had been expecting any of a number of things, really. Typically, it was elderly people who would fall asleep at the tables, but in his years of working at the library, Geralt had practically seen it all.

Still, he was surprised when, in one of the cushioned wooden chairs, slumped down onto the round table and surrounded by a veritable pile of books, was a man with a mop of brown hair actively using an open book as a pillow. There was a peaceful expression on his face, features soft and neutral and relaxed, and he seemed to be drooling onto the book just a bit. His clothing was… colourful, mostly. He wore a pair of bright purple slacks and brown loafers. On top of a short-sleeved button down, he had on a sweater vest with a garish blue leaf pattern covering it. There was a well-made leather satchel slung over the back of his chair, and Geralt spotted an assortment of silver rings on his hand.

Right as Geralt finished looking him over, the man released another ungodly snore from deep within his chest, and Geralt had to resist the urge to snort in amusement as he walked over and shook the man gently by his shoulder. Almost immediately, he grumbled into the book and began to blink awake, and Geralt hastily removed his hand, waiting patiently as he got his wits about him.

After a quick stretch in his seat, the man twisted to face him, still blinking the tiredness from his eyes, and Geralt was shocked by just how blue they were as he stared up at Geralt. The man froze for a moment, looking a bit like a deer caught in the headlights, before he seemed to take in his surroundings and look properly embarrassed.

“Sorry,” the man grinned sheepishly, then paused to yawn and rub at his eye before continuing. “I must’ve fallen asleep. Do you, uh, happen to know what time it is?”

Geralt looked down at his watch, then back up at the man. “Five till seven.”

“Oh, fuck,” he cursed, standing up. (Geralt was slightly ashamed to admit that he hadn’t realized until just then that the man was of a height with him.) He began hastily stacking books and piling some in his arms. “Is there still time to check these out? I can come back tomorrow if not, but I was really hoping that I—”

“Calm down,” Geralt said, raising an eyebrow at the man’s hurried, panicked flurry of movement. “Go to the desk. Zoltan can help you. You can leave anything you’re not borrowing here.”

Relief and hope flashed though the man’s unnecessarily blue eyes. “You’re sure?”

Geralt just nodded stiffly, watching as the man thanked him profusely and gathered his things, carrying a handful of books with him as he rushed off toward the lobby. Once he’d disappeared and his shuffling footsteps faded out, Geralt rummaged through the rest of the titles he’d accumulated. They all seemed to be on art and music across the Continent—a book of Aedirnian folk songs, a history of Kerackian musical movements, an encyclopaedia of Kaedweni sculptors. Geralt hummed under his breath, then began the monotonous job of putting everything in its rightful place.

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In his defense, Jaskier really hadn’t meant to fall asleep at the table.

Ever since he’d moved to Aedirn, he found himself exhausted more often than not. His life had consisted of a series of rather sporadic, spontaneous moves ever since he decided to leave his family home in Kerack to pursue the arts. He’d moved to Redania years ago to attend none other than Oxenfurt Academy, and had spent his summers gallivanting around the countryside with his schoolfriends. After three years of study, he graduated with degrees in Music Performance and Art History, and a year later, had earned a graduate degree as well. He had then promptly departed for a year of backpacking through Temeria, after which he’d returned to Oxenfurt to teach for a term. Most recently, he had uprooted his entire life to move to Dol Blathanna. He’d decided on a bit of a whim that he needed a change of pace—new places, new sights, new people. As soon as he had a job lined up as an educator and program developer at the Dol Blathanna’s Museum of Art and History—which, everyone had to admit, was truly a perfect fit for him—he had packed his things and been on his way.

That had been nearly two months ago, and Jaskier had been working overtime to establish a life for himself in the city. He’d always been a restless person, needing noise and hustle and bustle to keep himself sane, so he had signed a lease for a rather expensive apartment close to the city’s center. On the bright side, the location made his commute to work rather convenient, and he was near enough to nightlife that he had found a handful of bars and cafés he could play the occasional gig at. He’d also taken to offering music lessons on the weekends to help make ends meet. Between his musical pursuits, unpredictable work hours, and numerous side jobs, he was, well. Pretty tired, all things considered.

However, there was no time to rest! He had been tasked with a laundry list of assignments at work in order to prepare for the summer; the museum always put on educational programming and enrichment opportunities for children when schools were out of session, and Jaskier’s job was to propose and develop said programming. Thus, on one of his rare days off, he had gone to the library to do a bit of light research; he had a handful of ideas for some interactive exhibits, but he needed to flesh them out a bit more.

The research ended up being less light than he had planned, because of course it had, and soon enough, Jaskier had a pile of books around him. By the time he had finished flipping through the third book, he was becoming rather tired, and—

Okay, well. Look. Here’s the thing. Jaskier was tired, and he had been up until very early in the morning because he’d played a gig for some swanky hotel bar in the central business district, and the library was just cold enough that it was making him drowsy, and the sounds of people flipping through pages and trodding up and down the aisles was soothing him, and the books were, in all honesty, starting to bore him, and—

He fell asleep. He fell asleep, okay, and in his opinion, that was a very reasonable consequence given the clusterfuck of a headache his week had been.

Next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake by a man gorgeous enough that Jaskier, for a brief moment, froze in place and forgot entirely where he was. (He froze, which he never does. Julian Alfred Pankratz does not freeze, gods dammit, but sweet Melitele, who could blame him? The man was stunning.) He was tall and broad-shouldered, his long white hair tied messily into an updo with a few strands framing his face; he had honey-golden eyes, a strong brow and nose and jawline, and a few faint scars decorating his face. He wore a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a very flattering pair of black jeans. He also, much to Jaskier’s embarrassment, had a name-tag; in large letters, it read GERALT RIVIA, and underneath, in smaller text, LIBRARIAN . The library’s logo was depicted to the left.

A very gorgeous man, and a librarian to boot? Unfair.

Though he tried to appear smooth and suave and generally like a competent, put-together adult, Jaskier knew he fumbled through his interaction with the man, and he felt a bit like a fool the entire time. As he practically scurried off with his handful of books, his face and neck warmed with embarrassment. At the desk, he found the “Zoltan” individual Geralt had spoken of, a short, stocky man with a mohawk and full beard, and Jaskier hurried through the transaction before practically fleeing from the library. It wasn’t until he had returned to his apartment nearly twenty minutes later that he finally felt like he could breathe again.

He went through his evening routine of taking a scalding hot shower, changing into pajamas, and lounging on his couch with leftover takeout and a glass of Est Est. (Est Est was definitely beyond what he could afford at the moment; that particular bottle had been a farewell gift from Essi.) As he ate and drank, he flipped through the books he had checked out and wrote out ideas, notes, and questions in his work notebook. And if he occasionally remembered his downright embarrassing encounter at the library and then buried his face in a pillow as he tried to emotionally recover, that was nobody’s business but his own.

As the hours passed and the clock crept closer to midnight, he’d come up with more questions than anything else, which was. A bit of an issue.

Even with his extensive studies in art history, Jaskier didn’t know as much about Aedirnian artistic customs—his studies had placed a focus on traditions in remote, mountainous regions of Redania and Kaedwen. He could talk for hours about the production of Redanian watercolour paints, and had quite literally co-written one of the most comprehensive books on Kaedweni folk music, but he’d wanted the museum’s summer programming to have an emphasis on local arts, which meant that he’d need some help.

He then realized that this probably meant asking one of his new coworkers for direction, which he would, to be quite frank, rather perish than do, because he felt that most of them already thought he was silly and foppish and deeply unserious, with the way he was always running to and fro with his head barely attached to his shoulders, never seen without a cup of coffee and bags under his eyes. However, it was either facing his coworkers, all of whom had chronic cases of stick-up-the-ass-itis, or… going back to the library, and potentially facing the tall-gorgeous-intimidating librarian again. (Geralt, his brain supplied helpfully.)

Neither option sounded particularly appealing, and both avenues would undoubtedly lead to Jaskier making a fool of himself, so he decided that he would simply go to the library as soon as it opened at nine in the morning; he severely doubted that the man would be working from nine to seven on a daily basis, so he was probably in the clear.

…Probably.

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AN: hey y'all! hope you enjoy chapter 1!! keep up with me on my ao3, found +here, and my twitter @nottveth. chapters 2 and 3 are already written and posted on ao3, but will be updated here over the next few days.

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nomorerealitys-blog · 1 year

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Dol Blathanna Protector by Lorenzo Mastroianni

"As long as we stand, no human foot shall trample Dol Blathanna's meadows."

#art #fantasy #illustrations #gwent #elves #swords

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corvo-bianco-lilacs · 3 months

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I'm in a writing slump 🙃

Have some... Well, whatever this turns out to be!

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Yennefer brushed her fingers languidly through Triss' auburn locks, gently twisting the strands around her fingers before pulling them through, drawing a contented hum from the woman whose head was nestled on her lap, arms wrapped around her waist.

The raven-haired woman smiled down at her lover, her nails gently scratching at the nape of Triss' neck, then at the base of her skull, watching with amusement as the tension in the younger woman's body began to melt away.

A set of footsteps, light and carefully placed, brought her attention from one lover to the other, bringing a soft smile to Yen's lips as Triss let out a soft breath in the deepest of sleep.

Francesca came to perch beside Yen on the grass, tucking her long legs up close to her body as Yen leaned her head onto her shoulder.

"I've been looking for you, my raven." Francesca hummed, her voice a soft melody to Yen's ears. "I see you've been hiding from me."

"I would never." Yen scoffed, a smirk tugging at her pink lips. "But you must admit that the sunset is beautiful."

"It is, though not nearly as beautiful as you." Francesca replied, tilting Yen's head back slightly, her fingers pressed to the soft skin just beneath her chin, before kissing the dark-haired woman beside her.

Yen wrapped her free arm around Francesca's waist, tugging herself closer to the Elven Queen, parting her lips to Francesca's probing tongue. They remained together for several long moments, finally parting with soft huffs as they brought air back into their lungs.

Francesca looked down at Triss' sleeping form, a smile tugging at her lips, before her own hand joined Yen's in brushing out those long, auburn locks. Triss jolted then, just slightly, her cornflower blue eyes blinking open and gazing up into the adoring faces of the two women she had come to call home. She smiled back, nestling against Yen's abdomen before pushing herself upright, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

"Sorry... I nodded off." Triss yawned, pushing loose strands of hair back from her face.

"All the more reason to come to bed then, my darlings. It's getting quite late." Francesca replied, a slight purr to her voice as she stood from the ground, brushing blades of grass from the skirt of her dress.

Yen's eyes darkened slightly at the implication, while Triss' cheeks grew red at the thought, a shudder rushing through her as they both followed Francesca's lead, making their way back into the castle of Dol Blathanna.

Once their bedroom door shut behind them, and a sound shield was put in place, did the three women fall into the more carnal needs that their bodies required.

#the witcher #witcher fanfiction #witcher fanfic #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer z vengerbergu #triss marigold #yen x triss x francesca #francesca findabair #wlw #women loving women #useless lesbians #i love them okay?#soft babies

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