open post;

[choicely]

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open post for pic prompts, starters, and texts. f/f + f/m for shipping.
please link nsfw images.
compliant through season 4 of the witcher.

Comments

*throws two incongruous canons into the anachronism blender and sees what happens*

[aurable]

There wasn't a soul alive in any social circle that knew his real name. As far as anyone knew, the lord of Light Circle Hall was a murky shadow behind such a title and the pejorative epithet he wryly adopted: Drift. Stories behind the name were largely apocryphal now, but what was agreed upon was that he blew in sometime near the end of the latest civil war plaguing the Continent. Drift was a foreigner from some extinct polity that didn't survive the war, but his wealth had. Adding fuel to the rumor mill had been his marriage to a celebrated surgeon and war hero with whom he operated a modest but successful practice on the estate. As it always did, idle gossip and innocent curiosity soured when his much-beloved wife passed away on their estate two summers ago.

Drift had never been a social man, but his status as a widower drove him further into the background. The only people who had seen him frequently in the past two years were the skeleton crew of only a gardener, the estate's housekeeper, and the doctor and nurse. The latter two rarely came to the estate, only to see the few patients his departed wife left behind. Neither indulged prodding questions and only reiterated ad nauseam that they respected the lord's privacy, even as the Hall began to diminish. Like a hulking beast left limping back to its den, something once mighty curling up in the dark to go out with a whimper.

A gloomy stage was set for the shocking announcement of his recent engagement. Every affluent clique in the city was clucking when word spread—avoiding the scandal of a by-blow with a young lady whose prospects for a decent match were now ruined was the popular rumor. Some resurgence of Drift's rumored ties to dangerous forigen factions seeking to infiltrate decent Continent society was another. As always was the case, the truth was ordinary and not too exciting. A woman named Yennefer of Vengerbeg sought to avoid rumors about her singleton lifestyle at some twenty or so years. One mutual acquaintance between them by the name of Tissaia de Vries reached out to possibly the only man left among the already slim pickings, and Drift agreed without ever laying eyes on the woman.

"Car or carriage?" Those were the first words Drift had spoken to his fiance, and they held all the warmth of a neglected fireplace.

Drift stood in the great hall of the Aretuza academy where Yennefer had been boarding and teaching. A tall, broad-shouldered man whose forty-seven years were only apparent in the flecks of grey at his temples and the severity of his expression younger men couldn't muster. Beyond his cheery disposition, what also stuck out was his attire. Outside there was a warm summer storm blanketing the city in a fog, but warm weather nonetheless. Only Drift was covered from the neck down, even wearing thick gloves of glossy black leather but seemed not only comfortable like this but making the academy servants around him suddenly feel cold and woefully underdressed.

"As I understand it, most young women are uncertain about automobiles," Drift continued in that flat affectation of his. "Fascinating machines but understandably daunting to the unfamiliar. I can summon whichever you prefer."

At no point had a greeting or so much as a smile crossed his mouth still set in that tight, inscrutable line. The widowed lord looked solidly at his bride-to-be and only offered her whatever would make this first leg of the journey less tiresome.

here we go

[choicely]

Yennefer has known, since she was old enough to possess an awareness of such things, that her life would not be dictated by her own choices, but by the choices that would be made for her. There is a feeling of equal parts confinement and curiosity that stems from such a lack of freedom, though she has never been confronted with the possibility that her future will take such a dramatic turn until now. There is less of a conversation about it, and something closer to an instruction when Tissaia de Vries takes her into her sitting room and simply informs her, matter-of-factly, that she has found a solution to Yennefer's most pressing problem.

Marriage, as of now, is a necessary pursuit for her — the longer she goes without being wed to anyone, the more suspicion her status will elicit until the consensus reached will be that she is unsuitable to be anyone's wife, that she must be deficient in some way, and therefore any proposals that may have even been entertained by men in possession of a certain wealth will inevitably dry up altogether.

She has never even laid eyes on her betrothed until the announcement of her being affianced reaches the newspapers — now she is confronted with the sight of him, severe and statured, with a well-trimmed beard many noblemen would seethe in jealousy to grow themselves, his hands covered in black leather gloves that make her own uncovered fingers twitch in awareness behind where they're hidden by the full skirts of her dark dress. She is in possession of no real finery, even the gown she wears for teaching in a more modest silhouette, but her eyes may be the most striking thing about her — deep violet in color, set in a darker complexion that has prompted many a muttered comment about her true origins over the years.

The first quality of the lord that she realizes she had been unaware of until now is his age, the greying at his temples and the subtle weathering in his features alluding to a maturity that even her prospective past suitors, little though they'd been, had never owned a whit of and could likely never hope to.

The second is that he's actually addressing her, though it takes her an extra moment to discern what he's just suggested in the wake of placing him on the receiving end of her own scrutiny.

"The car, then," she finally decides, with little hesitation, followed by the sheer determination to not allow him to place her firmly in the category of most young women. If nothing else, she will distinguish herself, even if her aim, as Tissaia had insisted, is to be as unassuming as possible, to not draw any undesired attention to herself, and to simply be an obliging wife, one that he will not find any cause to take issue with. "I am not opposed to the unfamiliar, my lord."

She simply clasps her hands together before her, looking up at him with a subtle note of expectancy — she is under no illusions that he will so much as offer her an arm to the car, once it arrives, or assist her further. In fact, she has the keenest sense that he would rather not be preparing to wed her at all, if not for mutual necessity.