[ New Amsterdam is different than any country she's ever been to, and over eighty years, she's been to a lot of countries. To most, Yennefer is someone who has seen and done just about everything there is to do. That's the way Aretuza attracts sorceresses, in addition to seeking out the desperate. It was how they'd attracted her.
But New Amsterdam is something else. Flashing lights, overstimulation.
She is nothing if not a chameleon. Here, she's a literal chameleon. She inserts herself into the life of one of the frontrunners for the governorship by transforming into his wife, a new power that the blue glow in their chests invites. Just one more way in which magic has twisted and changed her body beyond recognition. Not only will she be safe from suspicion, this way, as the witch hunt for those with the blue light in their chest continues, but it gives her comfort, money, and the power to pursue the people who'd done this to her.
And access to the technology to possibly address another of her bodily deficits.
A silent auction takes place in mid-March, where many of the Displaced bring relics. It is a familiar enough scenario, over years of acquaintance, when she — with the dark skin and red hair of the governor's wife — sees Geralt of Rivia appear in leather and a scowl. He will recognize her. He always does. It's only a matter of time, and then he runs the risk of ruining everything for her.
But he has brought one of the items, says the security guard, and she can't kick him out. She tries to head it off instead by approaching him, asking in a voice that is her own, because she cannot change it: ]
How did you come by a piece like this? It must be four centuries old, at least.
[ She has made a guess, but she knows her way around relics back home, and age is age. ]
[Yennefer is many things, but she is not stupid. Or subtle.
New Amsterdam was overwhelming in certain fantastical ways that he was unused to. After over a century of monsterhunting, he had thought perhaps that he was done being dazzled by the unknown. Fortunately, some things never changed -- galas, of this sort were one of those things.
He'd never gravitated toward them previously, but if there was one thing Geralt was skilled at, it was observation. He was a hunter by nature and trade ... and there was something about the mayor's wife that did not sit right in his gut, and hadn't since he'd first spotted her wafting about the room.
She's too familiar, for someone he's never met before. Her mannerisms, her vigilance, and the way he spotted her looking at him once or twice.
And then he hears her voice. He's almost certain he must be hallucinating. His cat-like eyes narrow with an obvious discerning air -- as if he doesn't care if this "stranger" notices his suspicion.]
Just lucky, I guess.
[The line he draws is clear: give me a reason to trust you with my, first.]
[ The narrowing of his gaze is familiar in a way that charms her. It shouldn't. Geralt is not remotely a charming man by any objective measure, and yet the absence is its own charm. He has no guile, no charisma, and it's an incredible relief from Aretuza and the sorcerers and diplomats and royals she has kept company with for decades.
Thus she cannot help the lopsided, wry smile as he tries to figure her out. Yennefer suspects he already has, but she won't give up the game that easily. This is part of the entertainment of it, and she does have the gubernatorial candidate whose wife she is impersonating to consider. ]
Mr. Lynch isn't interested in trinkets and history. He prefers to look towards the building of a bright future. [ And what a bright future it is. Blinding. ] Were you hoping for an introduction?
[It comes delivered in that dry, obligated, familiar sort of way that Geralt often answers questions that everyone already knows the answers to. The only thing it serves to do is remind the person how little patience he has for the dance of mannerisms he's being asked to play just by being here.
And to hide the minute flaring of his nostrils -- instinctive, like he expects to smell something that isn't there.]
I wasn't talking about Lynch. I was talking about you.
[He doesn't like her tone. Not that it takes much. But the more she talks, the more he swears he has seen her before -- and not as the governor's wife.
The more she talks, the more she tilts those shoulders, the more he searches for that familiar scent that isn't there.
But if he's wrong and she is in fact the governor's wife, it would not be wise for him to attempt to intimidate her here. Instead, he cleverly angles his body so that nobody without very keen eyes would spot her behind his hulking form.]
It's a recent acquisition. I was told you weren't letting people in without one.
[All very honest. Maybe too honest.]
Truth is, madam, you'll have to ask the man I met shortly before I came if you are interested in, if further history is of interest to you.
[ She allows him to maneuver her with the ease of someone who is used to the dance, who knows precisely what he is doing, and allows it to take place. But she does fold her arms over her chest, as if protecting herself. ]
You've gone to a lot of effort to get into this party. Are you suggesting that I leave with you, so that you can introduce me to your finder?
[This time, Geralt lets a smile play on his face, the sort he knows when he's reached checkmate. If this is indeed one of the Displaced, they would have two choices in front of them: cry for help, and risk his neck -- or give up the charade, and come clean to him.
After all, he all but admitted that he bullied someone out of their entry ticket. The governor's wife would surely be more interested in the relic's owner than a brigand who'd lied to find his way to meet her.]
But, if it suits the lady, I am patient enough to wait for a moment of more convenience.
[As much as he might be a brute, he isn't ignorant to the dance. If the governor thinks this woman is his wife, it would not suit him to simply steal her away when there are so many eyes about.]
[ No, it's never been his way to suggest. He's used to blunt force. Yennefer works her jaw in a familiar way, a way reminiscent of the old set it had before she'd been made perfect by Aretuza, and — ]
I think it better suits me to call security. [ He'll be fine. She's never felt a shadow of guilt in risking the neck of Geralt of Rivia. Mrs. Lynch raises her hand, and a woman with an undercut in a high-collared suit approaches. ] Escort this gentleman from the auction and remove his donation from the floor. I have reason to believe it was stolen.
Ah. The space colonization imperative. Yes, and they've already taken the first steps. Two neighboring planets, Jupiter and Mars, already support colonies.
nilfgaard had invaded efficiently. ravka had its army of mages, but nilfgaard had its own as well. better trained. better fed. not wrung dry by the oppressive wall of darkness that had been trying to snuff out the lantsovs and their lot for generations.
ravka is a lost cause, but the rest of the continent need not be — because destiny had put the boy from the two mills directly in yennefer's path, and although he insisted that his friend might still be saved, yennefer was not burdened like he was by an excess of compassion.
this is how she drags him over the fjerdan border. hair and skin singed. dirt smeared through the sweat on her face and neck. they are both black spots of soot and soil against the ice, but they are alive — because he is too important to fall into nilfgaard's hands. because if fringilla touched him, as yennefer had, it would have been ravka turned to ash, not nilfgaard's twelfth battalion.
she hurls him into the snowdrift, breathing hard, the portal closing behind. leaving the graveyard of os alta behind. ]
You are an exceptional kind of idiot. [ she seethes it out, dropping her hands to her knees, breathing hard, swaying. whatever he was had amplified her chaos, but it had also felt like siphoning out a piece of her soul. when they find a place to stop, it will be for days. they need to get far enough away first. yennefer's not sure that anywhere is far enough.
she squints up at the trees, bare of leaves. skeletons raising their hands, flagging her and malyen's graves. annoyance snaps sharply through her expression. she has come too far to die here. ]
[ The snowdrift is a mercy, after all that heat and flame.
Or it would be, if Mal was thinking of anything other than Alina, vanishing into the churning chaos of the battlefield. She'd been within arms length and then in the midst of smoke and blood and fire—
He'd been screaming after her. Mal's throat is raw with it, or with smoke, or both. He had no magic, nothing but the sword in his hand among sorcerers, but what was the risk if Alina was in danger.
They'd only just found their way back to each other. It had hardly been a day.
And now here he is, thrumming like a tuning fork in the snow. He feels scalded, and not because of Yen's scathing tone. ]
Take us back, [ is the very first thing out of his mouth. The first thing he's said to her properly.
Mal can still feel where her fingers had wrapped around his wrist. It had felt as if all the blood in his veins had turned molten, as some force rushed to meet her hand. He is clammy with sweat and smeared with ash and his ears are ringing, but he staggers to his feet regardless.
This woman is shorter than he is, but Mal has no illusions that his height gives him any advantage. ]
We have to go back.
[ Alina beats over and over in his chest, an agonized thing. ]
[ as soon as he's on his feet again and nearer to her, yennefer raises her hands as if to ready herself to push him back. he's a soldier. this is the only language they understand.
but he doesn't close the distance. only insists. her hands drop again. ]
Were you any less important, I would gladly hand you over to die with your friend. My life would be easier for it. [ there's no faking the kind of contempt in her voice. she has no love for destiny tethering her to another. she had no love for it when it was geralt, and less for this boy. ] Unfortunately for us both, I want that less than I want to see Nilfgaard fall.
What does Mal do with that? He has seen magic at a distance, and knows it is not something to be compelled. It is not a weapon he can wrest from her hands and use himself. It is something only she can grant.
And somewhere, miles and miles from them, Alina is—
In danger. Maybe dead. Every moment he spends here arguing with this woman is another moment in which the latter becomes closer to truth. ]
Then we should be there [ is a stubborn protest, Mal's jaw tight, feet planted in the snow. ] I saw what you can do. You could take them apart.
If you were aware enough to see what I can do, then you were aware enough to recognize there is only one of me, and no reinforcements coming to Ravka. It is a loss. It is a tomb.
[ she should be more sympathetic. those she cares about had gone down defending ravka, too. believing in it. she smothers that sentiment in its crib. unwelcome, unwanted. out of this world before it could properly be in it. ]
They will not kill your friend. Not right away. She has the dubious honor of being more valuable as leverage.
How long does that keep Alina alive? How long does it keep her out of the hands of people who would see her turned into a specific kind of weapon?
Or perhaps Nilfgaard will do that now.
Mal's jaw works around protests and pleas, before he turns from Yen to survey where they'd landed. Frost and snow and emptiness, while somewhere far from them Ravka burns and Alina suffers. ]
How are we going to get her back?
[ This is not really a question for Yen. Instead, it is spoken into the frigid air. Mal's breath frosts over as he speaks, this impossible, hopeless sentiment aloud as he feels the humming buzz of the earth beneath his feet and Yen behind him and distantly, Alina, so far she is muted to nothing but a direction in which to walk. ]
We aren't. Not yet. Not until we stand a chance of pushing them out.
[ she looks around. they're in a clearing, inasmuch as one can call a thick layer of snow a clearing. the trees are sparser here, at least. she gestures towards the thicker line of the wood. ]
You're a tracker aren't you? Find us something to eat. I need to think.
[ strategize which way to head. in fjerdan territory, they're unlikely to meet any allies. the ice court would sooner allow invaders to push up against its borders than support the strategem of a witch.
they're around the fold, now. north enough that they could seek the coast, and novyi zem, ketterdam, the wandering isles. but these do not have the military forces to support reclaiming ravka, and making for shu han would mean passing through occupied territory once more. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
But New Amsterdam is something else. Flashing lights, overstimulation.
She is nothing if not a chameleon. Here, she's a literal chameleon. She inserts herself into the life of one of the frontrunners for the governorship by transforming into his wife, a new power that the blue glow in their chests invites. Just one more way in which magic has twisted and changed her body beyond recognition. Not only will she be safe from suspicion, this way, as the witch hunt for those with the blue light in their chest continues, but it gives her comfort, money, and the power to pursue the people who'd done this to her.
And access to the technology to possibly address another of her bodily deficits.
A silent auction takes place in mid-March, where many of the Displaced bring relics. It is a familiar enough scenario, over years of acquaintance, when she — with the dark skin and red hair of the governor's wife — sees Geralt of Rivia appear in leather and a scowl. He will recognize her. He always does. It's only a matter of time, and then he runs the risk of ruining everything for her.
But he has brought one of the items, says the security guard, and she can't kick him out. She tries to head it off instead by approaching him, asking in a voice that is her own, because she cannot change it: ]
How did you come by a piece like this? It must be four centuries old, at least.
[ She has made a guess, but she knows her way around relics back home, and age is age. ]
no subject
New Amsterdam was overwhelming in certain fantastical ways that he was unused to. After over a century of monsterhunting, he had thought perhaps that he was done being dazzled by the unknown. Fortunately, some things never changed -- galas, of this sort were one of those things.
He'd never gravitated toward them previously, but if there was one thing Geralt was skilled at, it was observation. He was a hunter by nature and trade ... and there was something about the mayor's wife that did not sit right in his gut, and hadn't since he'd first spotted her wafting about the room.
She's too familiar, for someone he's never met before. Her mannerisms, her vigilance, and the way he spotted her looking at him once or twice.
And then he hears her voice. He's almost certain he must be hallucinating. His cat-like eyes narrow with an obvious discerning air -- as if he doesn't care if this "stranger" notices his suspicion.]
Just lucky, I guess.
[The line he draws is clear: give me a reason to trust you with my, first.]
Is the host entitled to bidding privledges?
no subject
Thus she cannot help the lopsided, wry smile as he tries to figure her out. Yennefer suspects he already has, but she won't give up the game that easily. This is part of the entertainment of it, and she does have the gubernatorial candidate whose wife she is impersonating to consider. ]
Mr. Lynch isn't interested in trinkets and history. He prefers to look towards the building of a bright future. [ And what a bright future it is. Blinding. ] Were you hoping for an introduction?
no subject
[It comes delivered in that dry, obligated, familiar sort of way that Geralt often answers questions that everyone already knows the answers to. The only thing it serves to do is remind the person how little patience he has for the dance of mannerisms he's being asked to play just by being here.
And to hide the minute flaring of his nostrils -- instinctive, like he expects to smell something that isn't there.]
I wasn't talking about Lynch. I was talking about you.
no subject
If something catches my eye, I might consider it. Unlike my husband, I like to know the history of the piece. Where it's been. How it was acquired.
[ She tips her head in acknowledgment. ]
no subject
[He doesn't like her tone. Not that it takes much. But the more she talks, the more he swears he has seen her before -- and not as the governor's wife.
The more she talks, the more she tilts those shoulders, the more he searches for that familiar scent that isn't there.
But if he's wrong and she is in fact the governor's wife, it would not be wise for him to attempt to intimidate her here. Instead, he cleverly angles his body so that nobody without very keen eyes would spot her behind his hulking form.]
It's a recent acquisition. I was told you weren't letting people in without one.
[All very honest. Maybe too honest.]
Truth is, madam, you'll have to ask the man I met shortly before I came if you are interested in, if further history is of interest to you.
no subject
You've gone to a lot of effort to get into this party. Are you suggesting that I leave with you, so that you can introduce me to your finder?
no subject
[This time, Geralt lets a smile play on his face, the sort he knows when he's reached checkmate. If this is indeed one of the Displaced, they would have two choices in front of them: cry for help, and risk his neck -- or give up the charade, and come clean to him.
After all, he all but admitted that he bullied someone out of their entry ticket. The governor's wife would surely be more interested in the relic's owner than a brigand who'd lied to find his way to meet her.]
But, if it suits the lady, I am patient enough to wait for a moment of more convenience.
[As much as he might be a brute, he isn't ignorant to the dance. If the governor thinks this woman is his wife, it would not suit him to simply steal her away when there are so many eyes about.]
no subject
I think it better suits me to call security. [ He'll be fine. She's never felt a shadow of guilt in risking the neck of Geralt of Rivia. Mrs. Lynch raises her hand, and a woman with an undercut in a high-collared suit approaches. ] Escort this gentleman from the auction and remove his donation from the floor. I have reason to believe it was stolen.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
Do you realize what these people are trying to do?
no subject
[ that seems like the best summary, anyway. ]
Obviously you feel differently.
no subject
These people want to leave this world entirely, and go to others.
no subject
Yes, and they've already taken the first steps. Two neighboring planets, Jupiter and Mars, already support colonies.
no subject
[That's only half a compliment. More of a complaint.]
no subject
no subject
[Honestly, its on the same level of impossible for him.]
no subject
I hope you don't imagine this as some apology.
[ how does one make amends for the theft of someone's will? ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
accept these vibes.
watch me set up the weirdest crossover ever
nilfgaard had invaded efficiently. ravka had its army of mages, but nilfgaard had its own as well. better trained. better fed. not wrung dry by the oppressive wall of darkness that had been trying to snuff out the lantsovs and their lot for generations.
ravka is a lost cause, but the rest of the continent need not be — because destiny had put the boy from the two mills directly in yennefer's path, and although he insisted that his friend might still be saved, yennefer was not burdened like he was by an excess of compassion.
this is how she drags him over the fjerdan border. hair and skin singed. dirt smeared through the sweat on her face and neck. they are both black spots of soot and soil against the ice, but they are alive — because he is too important to fall into nilfgaard's hands. because if fringilla touched him, as yennefer had, it would have been ravka turned to ash, not nilfgaard's twelfth battalion.
she hurls him into the snowdrift, breathing hard, the portal closing behind. leaving the graveyard of os alta behind. ]
You are an exceptional kind of idiot. [ she seethes it out, dropping her hands to her knees, breathing hard, swaying. whatever he was had amplified her chaos, but it had also felt like siphoning out a piece of her soul. when they find a place to stop, it will be for days. they need to get far enough away first. yennefer's not sure that anywhere is far enough.
she squints up at the trees, bare of leaves. skeletons raising their hands, flagging her and malyen's graves. annoyance snaps sharply through her expression. she has come too far to die here. ]
*best
Or it would be, if Mal was thinking of anything other than Alina, vanishing into the churning chaos of the battlefield. She'd been within arms length and then in the midst of smoke and blood and fire—
He'd been screaming after her. Mal's throat is raw with it, or with smoke, or both. He had no magic, nothing but the sword in his hand among sorcerers, but what was the risk if Alina was in danger.
They'd only just found their way back to each other. It had hardly been a day.
And now here he is, thrumming like a tuning fork in the snow. He feels scalded, and not because of Yen's scathing tone. ]
Take us back, [ is the very first thing out of his mouth. The first thing he's said to her properly.
Mal can still feel where her fingers had wrapped around his wrist. It had felt as if all the blood in his veins had turned molten, as some force rushed to meet her hand. He is clammy with sweat and smeared with ash and his ears are ringing, but he staggers to his feet regardless.
This woman is shorter than he is, but Mal has no illusions that his height gives him any advantage. ]
We have to go back.
[ Alina beats over and over in his chest, an agonized thing. ]
no subject
but he doesn't close the distance. only insists. her hands drop again. ]
Were you any less important, I would gladly hand you over to die with your friend. My life would be easier for it. [ there's no faking the kind of contempt in her voice. she has no love for destiny tethering her to another. she had no love for it when it was geralt, and less for this boy. ] Unfortunately for us both, I want that less than I want to see Nilfgaard fall.
no subject
What does Mal do with that? He has seen magic at a distance, and knows it is not something to be compelled. It is not a weapon he can wrest from her hands and use himself. It is something only she can grant.
And somewhere, miles and miles from them, Alina is—
In danger. Maybe dead. Every moment he spends here arguing with this woman is another moment in which the latter becomes closer to truth. ]
Then we should be there [ is a stubborn protest, Mal's jaw tight, feet planted in the snow. ] I saw what you can do. You could take them apart.
no subject
[ she should be more sympathetic. those she cares about had gone down defending ravka, too. believing in it. she smothers that sentiment in its crib. unwelcome, unwanted. out of this world before it could properly be in it. ]
They will not kill your friend. Not right away. She has the dubious honor of being more valuable as leverage.
no subject
How long does that keep Alina alive? How long does it keep her out of the hands of people who would see her turned into a specific kind of weapon?
Or perhaps Nilfgaard will do that now.
Mal's jaw works around protests and pleas, before he turns from Yen to survey where they'd landed. Frost and snow and emptiness, while somewhere far from them Ravka burns and Alina suffers. ]
How are we going to get her back?
[ This is not really a question for Yen. Instead, it is spoken into the frigid air. Mal's breath frosts over as he speaks, this impossible, hopeless sentiment aloud as he feels the humming buzz of the earth beneath his feet and Yen behind him and distantly, Alina, so far she is muted to nothing but a direction in which to walk. ]
no subject
[ she looks around. they're in a clearing, inasmuch as one can call a thick layer of snow a clearing. the trees are sparser here, at least. she gestures towards the thicker line of the wood. ]
You're a tracker aren't you? Find us something to eat. I need to think.
[ strategize which way to head. in fjerdan territory, they're unlikely to meet any allies. the ice court would sooner allow invaders to push up against its borders than support the strategem of a witch.
they're around the fold, now. north enough that they could seek the coast, and novyi zem, ketterdam, the wandering isles. but these do not have the military forces to support reclaiming ravka, and making for shu han would mean passing through occupied territory once more. ]
(no subject)