The air outside is sharp and cold, wet with the promise of rain. A stillness hangs in the air, a dead-weight. There’s a sense of foreboding in the chilling frost that encroaches upon the city of Cidaris; a warning, something desolate and hungry about it– too much ice. Winter will soon come, harsh deep and pure, drowning the Continent in its frosty darkness. Yennefer does not mind it; she is shadow and frost herself, a sharp shard of ice, will not warm under a warm touch; has only ever warmed for him; and now he's gone and she has shut that warmth inside an icy heart, unyielding, fixed, unreachable, malefic. There's only cold water under the ice, only sharp winds. She does not mind it; here, in her winter, she is powerful; here in her winter, she does not wilt: she thrives. No one can touch her. Nothing can crawl under her skin; only what she allows.
Yet, life remains, around her. The city is vibrant and thriving in breathless anticipation of the ball meant to be thrown at Vartburg castle tonight, pulsing with energy, the strident bustle of Seaside Bazaar at noon, the ornate streets full of people from the world over. White houses adorned with sloping roofs which glint like shards of shattered glass under the harsh glare of a cold sun, swarm the square and from an open window, a child can be heard, squalling like a seagull. A flock of crows abruptly rises from the frozen cobblestones like dark brume, crowding the skies above. Murmurs of song, and roars of laughter pierce the air which too thrums like a thing alive, and merchants bawl and shriek over the roaring of the furious ocean, flaunting their goods, the many curiosities brought to the port from the world over, many of them, truly astounding. The sea on the horizon burns like a jewel. The creaking of a carriage through the streets, then, black horses snorting and stamping their hooves as it comes to a halt. A man emerges from it, undoubtedly a sorcerer in his coal black garments, the sharp, coldness of his eyes. He has dark, slightly waving deep brown hair that falls to his shoulders, a sharp jaw bristling with stubble and hooded eyes, fire bright and full of amusement. At his ear, some magical symbol, a singular earring, glimmers.
Yennefer of Vengerberg, swathed in black silks and velvet, soon follows, grasping at his forearm so that she might not slip; she descends from the shadows like river water, dark and mysterious, gleaming obsidian. Her violet gaze, cold and aloof, dispassionate and menacing, drapes to her feet as she gathers the rich silks of her black skirts in one lace-gloved hand, flowing around shapely legs; her face, pale under the sunlight, radiates with fierce, provocative beauty. Dangerous. Shamelessly alluring. And dazzling. She tosses her head and draws the hood of her ink black velvet cloak trimmed with white fur back, shakes out her hair, and a mass of raven black curls cascades down her back to her waist. They ripple and shimmer under the sun, like spun silk. She deigns to smile at their driver, bestows an apathetic, cool look upon him. The mage draws her closer and she links her arm with his, says something sharply when he asks her a question. She's beauty and menace, loose hair and an excessively tightened belt round a willowy waist, a lace halterneck, plum lipstick. Wonderfully narrow, full lips press into a sharp smirk as she hastily unfastens the brooch from her cape, revealing white lace under its velvet, enveloping her breast. The sweet scent of crushed lilacs and gooseberries fills the air around her, mixing with the sharp tang of the sea coming to her in long slow drifts as they begin to pick their way down to the square, as she huffs coldly, says something to her companion, nervously toying with the obsidian star hung upon her slim throat, its active diamonds pulsating, sparkling like silvered flames.
The sky above them crackles with distant thunder.
