whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

Her senses are keen and oh so alive and aware. She can actually feel him pulsate and release. Or at least it seems so with the way that he moves. Her hold on him, even with her limbs wanting to lay boneless and slack, remains. No longer held back and not a time keeper with movement there is still such a steadiness. Continuing and flourishing with his release.

Rolling and grinding until finally at a stand still. Yennefer slowly unhooks her heels, her knees stay bent and close to him.

"It's a silly word. Forgettable." Except for when you are such a person that travels on foot, sometimes horseback, all over the highways and byways of land. All that flora and fauna. Jaskier will not find himself so cross with thistles or their downy portions any longer. She laughs softly and gently pulls herself to make space to try and see his face. Moving this much causes a residual shiver in her too. "I hope I've given you things worth remembering." Such a tease she is. Jaskier gets another little peck. His shoulders and chest still are heaving. "Never one to speak openly of my trysts I will at least never refute that you are....magnificent."

Yennefer sighs out the full contents of her lungs. "Shame the girl had gone away. I could have asked her to draw a bath." With her influence and coin she can get a bath at any hour. That would require moving and frankly she is not yet ready for that.

"In an establishment of this quality?" Jaskier asked and shivered as he withdrew. His soft cock dropping between his legs, spreading slick and semen against his thighs. It is a glorious feeling and he sighs. He drops to his side next to her and his arm wraps around her stomach on reflex.

"I should imagine they will bother us again, shortly," Jaskier says and shifts closer, burying his face in her hair and tucking his forehead against her temple.

"If not, I shall venture forth and inquire--once I can walk again."

Empty and splayed open, goosebumps spread over her thighs. They pull closed and it is quite the sensation as she tilts into Jaskier. This was more than enough. A grand night out. Now would be the time for farewells and last fond touches. Except that feels wrong to suggest. He is not some lordling, sell-sword or swain who she will never speak to again. This is her good, good friend. She indulges in touch for a moment more. For him, she thinks. Jaskier is all a-quiver. Though birdlike to Yennefer most times, she has never known a bird to be so affectionate. Maybe he did fuck her mind away. His arm is warm on her skin, they both are hot but he is some how simply--she prefers this touch.

Her hair is a wreck, falling into coils wherever damp. Watching him make a pillow of it pulls her lips to smile. "Probably to ensure that no one has died." In the permanent sense at least. "A murder is a dreadful thing for business."

Changing the name of the place, hoping it wouldn't be haunted thereafter. The stigma hanging over it. Temeria has a better chance of recovering from it than a small hamlet or village. Yennefer cannot for the life of her remember why she thought it was important to come.

Her fingers trace over Jaskier's back. A sigil for peace, a sigil for health. He needs no sigils for talent. "I would think it would be bad service to ignore a patrons needs and have to make them go all the way down the steps and all the way to the innkeeper himself." Each all drawn out for the tedious thing that it is.

He huffs a laugh against her hair and brushes lips over the rise of her cheek before he speaks. It does not even occur to him that she might wish him to leave, just yet, and he does not show any sign of preparing. His thumb smooths over her soft skin, though it is a simpler motion than the patterns she draws against his back.

He cannot recall the last time he laughed so much or so often, particularly during sex. He feels so much lighter--he is not nearly whole, but the wound in his heart has been cleaned, flushed, and the bitter infection in the depths of it purged away. He is not so terribly sad and, for that, he is grateful.

He draws a long, slow breath through his nose, fills his lungs with the scent of her, of them, and then speaks. He sounds both lazy and immeasurably contented.

"Does her ladyship require anything else, once I undertake that harrowing journey?" He says, after a long moment spent with his eyes shut, reveling in the softness of her hair. He leans back then, but only so far that he might stretch up just a bit and peer down at her, sleepy eyes indented at the corners with his happiness.

"Some fine oils and salts, perhaps? Or refreshment of some kind?"

Is this a common occurrence for the bard? Surely it must be to lay and relish in the messy nest of love. Why else would he be so despised by husbands, brothers and so many that stumble into the bedchamber? That is how rumors go, she thinks.

Yennefer slowly blinks and finds that careful kiss and press to her cheek is a private kind of charm or mark of luck. The deeper reserves of sadness have been purged from the well in his eyes. Still brilliant, still blue a might better than before. Perhaps a trick of the light.

Lilac, gooseberries, linen, the fine quality oil with sex all with the unique fragrances of their bodies. Heady, rich and lush, befitting a sorceress. Somehow Jaskier wears lilac well.

"Lavender and rose bath salts." Specifics. She is still laying down but cannot help but reach up to stroke his jaw, his throat, down his neck to his chest. Such a distracting sight he is. Though her eyes are still drawn up to his face, smiling and sweet. "Apple juice. And if there isn't any I can be without." Though the concept makes her lips press together in a pout. "Get whatever you like. Is that a fitting reward for a brave bard forced to embark on such a quest?" Perilous place that an inn in the lazier hours of the night during a peaceful festival.

Her fingers drop from him and fall against her belly. Oh. That's right. She is still dressed for fun and games. The leather is not uncomfortable, the fastens might have little teeth marks. More proof of a time well spent.

"As you wish," Jaskier says, smiling and delighted as he pushes himself up off the bed. It takes some doing and, admittedly, he lets out a sigh of effort--he is tired to his bones and already feeling the soreness her pretty cock has wrought in him. It is something to savor, that lovely burn, but it will be an ordeal come morning. Ah, he is getting too old for such fun.

He pulls on his trousers and fastens the topmost clasp of them. He foregoes his lacing and simply lets his half-open chemise cover the undone stretches of his pants. He shall not be gone long, it seems, because he does not even glance at his lute or doublet as he walks to the door. He does comb his fingers back through his hair, but it is an easy motion that, truly, does little to fix it.

The maid is nowhere to be found, absent entirely from the hall outside their door. He is forced to walk down the steps and to the innkeep at the desk. The man gives him a stern but, frankly, approving look and hums with appropriate seriousness as Jaskier makes his requests. The bathwater will take time to heat, as will the apples to press, so he settles and waits for the latter and (to some degree) the former.

He returns ten minutes hence, a pitcher and two glasses in hand, and the innkeeper respectfully behind. The man doesn't enter their room--it is not hard to guess at the state of undress to be found within, and Jaskier sets the juice aside as he takes over the movement of the tub.

"A maid will be by with water, and with the requisite accouterments, shortly. Until then, your juice?"

Ten minutes is not a terribly long amount of time. Yennefer accomplishes her own goal of sitting up. And that lets her be in an ideal position to remove the cock and it's garter. As suspected there are small bite marks were the fastens rested into her skin. She traces over the first marking the outside of her thigh with a smile. Her feet are not reliable as she stands and holds the bed post.

Jaskier's doublet lays near and she places it over the foot of the bed. And ah. His blue silk small clothes. Truly a splurge, whatever seamstress had made these had an eye for detail as well as a luxurious supply of silk. The bard seems to be operating well without them and she folds them up and places them under her dress. All garments she recovers she drapes over the chaise.

Shame he took his chemise. It would be of a high quality. Yennefer pulls a silk robe from her items. Surprisingly this one is white with embroidered grey swirls of ivy. The belt is there, though she doesn't see a reason why to draw it shut if it is to be removed so soon. The main function is to ward of a peek or a chill when the door is opened again. This is about the most effort she feels necessary to put into clothing. Footsteps sound by the door--without sex it is easier to hear someone approaching.

"My hero returns." And not empty handed. Sitting on the chaise to the side of the collection of clothes leaves her closer to the door. Already Yennefer is smiling to see him again, so rakish and so very fucked is a sight, she smiles even wider to see juice as well as the bath. The Golden Fawn is a quality establishment. "What pains you must have taken." To either hunt down that naughty maid or to endure whatever mood the innkeeper was in.

Has she ever seen Jaskier do manual labor before? Does this count as manual labor? He is doing well enough on his own. "There is good enough." At least enough space to put the large wooden vat. "Come. Come. Sit and drink."

Jaskier sets the tub where she likes and reclaims the pitcher and glasses before finishing his idle stroll to her side. He pours as he walks, a skill cultivated over many years of practice, and offers up a glass before taking a careful seat alongside her. He sets the pitcher aside and, as he bends, two maids hustle in through the open door.

One has two pitchers of water, the other only one but also a tray of delicate containers. They dump the steaming water into the tub, set the salts and perfumes aside, and then hurry out without so much as making eye contact with either of them. Their cheeks appeared to have been burning just slightly.

"I think we might have been loud," Jaskier whispers aside, over the rim of his glass. He does not sound apologetic or regretful in the slightest. Without thinking, his hand comes up and brushes some of her dark hair over her shoulder, uncovering her face so he can see it better from the side.

It is a liberty he never dreamed he would have taken and now he does it thoughtlessly.

"I suppose I shall have to tip them when they bring us breakfast," he muses and takes a sip of the juice in his glass. He glances back as they return with another four pitchers of steaming water and the tub is nearly half filled.

"They certainly earned it."

"Thank you," spoken from the bottom of her heart. She takes the offered glass. With Jasker sitting close to her he can interpret her little noise of delight however he means. A tease, a memory or because she really does enjoy her apple juice. Freshly pressed apple juice to be exact. She can tell. The right flavor and crispness, the right sweet and tartness.

The water they carry is hot and heavy. Both are still young women. They have successful childbearing years ahead. What reason do they have to be ashamed of the pleasure of others? When a man is kind to you, handsome and charming it makes no sense to not bed him. Maybe they have never heard such passionate, enjoyed fucking. That could be a reason for the flush of color. The very pointed refusal of eye contact, that is a more obvious indicator they were heard. Yennefer leans into Jaskier. "I don't think, darling. I know." No apologies on her part either.

"Perhaps in the morning or whenever I leave." Violet eyes stop scrutinizing the poor maids as she turns to look at him. "I hope you are not wasting any spent coin on your own lodging being here." The notion is a gentle nudge, already he is here and she has not paused her touching or leaning. The time of shooing him away has passed. She would like someone else to wash her hair. And after?

"The bed is large and, as you have witnessed for yourself, comfortable. And I could not take up the whole of it even if I tried." Is this casual enough? Welcoming and not too, too much. Is there really any use at attempting to put him at a distance when Jaskier is wised to her?

Were she literally anyone else, Jaskier might've been inclined to tease her. To point out the coyness of her invitation, to tease her about enjoying his company, but that felt like it would be...unduly cruel. Instead, Jaskier sipped his juice and considered her. He was given to lingering after trysts, probably too much so--he had outstayed many a welcome...but he didn't think that would be a terrible problem, this time.

"If there is such luxurious bedding to spare, who am I to refuse?" He replies and sets his glass aside as he offers her a hand. The bath is steaming already and he is certain that ten minutes spent in carnal disarray is long enough for anyone's taste.

"Now, I insist you allow me to wash your lovely hair," Jaskier added and his request was earnest. His own hair never grew much longer than his ears--it became unbearable for him after that. He had always liked to--washing long hair was a guilty pleasure and hers was so terribly soft and curling.

One doesn't have to be a sage to suggest that sorceresses and any magic users should not be teased. Those that bed with magic users of any kind are already throwing caution to the wind. That doesn't mean they should not take care. Jaskier's response is perfect. Yennefer nods in agreement. Perfect reasoning to stay the night.

Now that they are alone once again, she lets the silk fall from her shoulders and down her back. Her glass gets a final, full drink. Once she stands it's another garment to touch the floor. Her companion's state of dress renews the amusement in her eyes as she pulls the chemise free from his barely fastened trousers. "Is there an end to your gallant nature?" Leave it to her to find this arrangement gallant. She takes his hand for balance to take the first step into the tub. Yennefer moves slowly savoring the way the water's intense heat makes her pale skin pink. Any possible soreness will be fended off with a soak. She keeps their fingers touching because that's what she wants right now.

"You are joining me." Once she is settled that is. Kneeling, feeling the water rise and splash to her thighs, her buttocks her cunt. "It will be cozy." Cozier than the bed situation. Finally low enough in the tub the water sloshes about her tits.

He gives her a strange look, then--not one that disagrees, but one that's caught between confusion and novel surprise, as though the possibility honestly hadn't occurred to him. He has to extricate his hand to free his chemise but, once that is hauled over his head, ruffling his already bed-tossed hair, he takes her hand again and undoes his trousers with his free fingers. Those he shimmies out of and, ah, but he is still a mess.

"Gallant she calls me! Invites me to her bed and a cozy bath?" Jaskier says in a falsely scandalized whisper as he steps into the tub alongside her. It is not a large tub, it was well within his ability to maneuver, but there is space for them both so long as they do not mind one sitting in the other's lap. Jaskier, being the heavier of the two of them, opts to draw her into his once he sinks into the water.

"Why, Yennefer, if I didn't know any better, I would think you were trying to seduce me," Jaskier announces quietly, and falsely aghast, into the space between her cheek and ear. Her hair, where it touches the water, is already gathering into dark, shiny locks.

The water rises with another occupant in the tub. It now sloshes across Yennefer's collarbones. They are far, far more comfortable with one another than before. Her eyes are half-lidded in the warm bliss. "I would have asked for two baths but not only would that have taken longer....what fun would it be?" Trying to suss out how they fit and get clean accordingly in a bathtub of this size is only a problem that the lowborn dream of. Yennefer dreamed of this once upon a time. Now she prefers to live her every want as it comes.

Jaskier only sports the oil on his posterior. His enjoyment is important but he does need to be clean too. The tray is not so far away. A stretch and they can reach every offered salt, scrub and soap.

"Oh is that what they are saying now? So many, many whispers for you. Is it a hobby to collect them?" She can't keep a straight face for that nonsense. Though every word is true in this case. An invitation that was taken without so much as a pause. The bard is a bold one, she already knew it. Somehow experiencing him first hand is filled with surprises.

She sits up on his thighs with such an ease. Jaskier is taller than she, heavier than she and a man. Yennefer casts such a shadow that remembering herself, remembering that with power she is still a small woman... that can be terrifying. With the bard she is unafraid. "Me? What a notion. Why would I ever think I had a chance with a man of such principle and talents?" Her voice is low and attempting to stay scandalized.

Jaskier manages to maintain his scandalized expression as she accuses him of collecting rumors about himself. Well he mostly maintains it--his moe of outrage does turn into an open mouthed smile before she finishes. When she plays the meek and lowly maid, though, with her hair wreathed around her, perched atop his thighs, his backside still sore from how lovingly she had fucked him not an hour ago?

Jaskier laughs, honestly and brightly and leans forward until his forehead rests on her shoulder. He is laughing still, and it shakes him and her and ripples the water. Lest she think he is laughing at her, he smooths his hands up her sides and then ghosts them along her skin until he can settle them on either side of her face.

"Principle and talent, she says? Scurrilous lies," he announces mirthfully and leans in to peck his lips against hers. "Beautiful words from a beautiful woman who will ever ruin me for lesser women, if I am not very careful."

He was never very careful.

Yennefer likes the sound of his laugh actually. Listening to it peal through the room and make their tub into an ocean of waves. It does carry quite a bit. He is the most smiling and laughing of sane adults she has come across. That's saying something. Her travels have taken her to so many kingdoms. Though it was already established he was quite the individual.

His eyes are still laughing even as no more comes from his mouth. Lip to lip again, pressed and soothing. "I wasn't joking about talent." And that is sealed with another kiss.

No true ear for music nor verse he plainly has an appeal. Folk have learned the words and tune enough to sing along. Maidens--well tonight one maiden--weep for his words. The source of all that is here with her.

"Take care, I don't aim to ruin. Accidents happen." Yennefer's smile has a sharpened edge. Ruin him for lesser women encompasses many, many women. Just because she wants everything doesn't mean that she will possess it. And even possession is a fleeting state. She tries not to let her own line of thinking sour the mood.

"...will you really clean my hair?"

"Gods yes," he exhales and it has none of the teasing quality of their flirting. "I have wanted to wash your hair since I first woke up and you tried to unsex me."

It is truly lovely hair and he has always delighted in running his fingers through lovely hair. He does so, then, as he has permission to touch. His own damp fingers muss more than they straighten, but the satisfaction is all the same.

"Turn around or I'll get soap in your lovely eyes," he instructs, matter of fact, and gestures as he leans back.

"Want no longer, dearheart." It's her turn to laugh. Not so long, loud or jovial as he. Undoubtedly merry. Their first meeting was so spectacularly awful. No regrets. The past is finished. Yennefer was so certain that her efforts would make her whole again. She would have castrated him and a dozen other men if it would have been true. Praise to the gods indeed, she had done herself a favor. Jaskier's cock is best on himself.

She uses the sides of the tub for balance as she turns. There is enough room for her to tilt her head back and submerge most of her hair. Her legs curl under her, sitting lower to help the process. The steam coils in the air.

"After this festival," or whenever his majesty has had enough of song of a traveling bard, "where will you wander to? Is there a pattern or order you follow?" Yennefer was invited. She's invited many places. Kingdoms want to show power and influence with their guests as much as appeal to sorceresses, mages and druids. This was absolutely a whim.

Her hair trails his lap and grazes, with perfect light, softness, against his legs and hips as she dips her head back. When she rights herself it falls in a heavy curtain against her back--already his fingers card through it and comb it and he reaches over the side to pluck a fine soap off the tray.

"Not generally, no, unless I have been summoned here or there, or winter is upon us," Jaskier explains as he pours some of the lilac scented soap I to his hands and works it between his fingers. He settles them on the crown of her head and scrubs with gentle, delicate motions against her scalp.

Much like his eclectic scheduling, it is not hard to guess why he works this way. She is certainly not dirty enough to merit this attention, but he is very good at it and enjoys giving this as much as anyone has ever enjoyed receiving it.

"This year, I had thought to journey south, perhaps, or to Cidaris if that cad Marx is afield. I've always been fond of the coast."

The diligent, careful work against her crown makes her sigh and softly moan. Thorough and committed to the task, truly. Leave it to Jaskier to not tie himself to empty promises. All Yennefer will have to do with her locks is brush it and braid it before sleep. "Are you sure you're only a bard and not a barber?" Her head tilts this way and that into Jaskier's hands. Now Yennefer can list is accomplishments beyond the lute.

Facing away, she cups the water to rinse her face. Her own cosmetics are resistant until she wills them not to be. More curiosity and illusion, as if females needed more.

"Marx? That is another bard. Hmmm. Marx... I can't say I've heard the name." One of her shoulders shrug. "Though as you know I am chasing the tail of trend on what is popular where music is concerned. Have you met the man? Or are you sworn rivals on principle?" Yennefer reaches beneath the water to stroke his thigh because she can. "Don't speak ill of cads. Some are most brilliant."

There are precious few things Yennefer could have said that would have endeared her more to Jaskier than asking who the hell Valdo Marx was. His grin split his face as he pulls her head back a bit and cups water in one hand to rinse her long dark hair. He looks positively elated, even as she corrects him about his own status as a horrible cad.

He is, apparently, a brilliant cad.

He could love her, he realizes, with his whole heart for as long as she would allow it.

"Oh, I've known Valdo Marx for quite a while," Jaskier tells her. "He's a pompous, bloviating, lackluster minstrel with a tin ear and clumsy fingers. He is deadset on ruining my reputation and will not shut up about his own--he is the worst--"

Jaskier smooths her hair back from her forehead and sighs, flatly.

"He is also my ex." Which, he felt, explained quite a lot about their animosity. "Did you know I actually tried to wish him dead with that Djinn? I believe I requested apoplexy, specifically. I know, I know, but he did steal my songs and cheat on me with a patron and muse--it was warranted."

The suds dissolve leaving her hair in a renewed state of shine. Yennefer spies his expression before shutting her eyes against another flow of water. How he outshines the lamps with a grin. She can picture it just as perfectly with her eyes closed the way the sun burns an image. Far more merriment in one little finger than other men have in his whole body.

"Jaskier, why is he still alive?" That's a real question, and she twists to be able to look at him in the face. "Life's riches are ill spent on his like." Is it the carelessness with a fellow sensitive creator that is so offensive to her in this moment? Or is it because it is her dear, sweet new ...friend? She touches his cheek. Diving in and out of lover's beds, taking to the path and flitting in courts on the regular is not for the feint of heart. She still felt his tears for one that did not handle him carefully. Geralt, while cruel, did not act with a plan or motive. Obliviousness is not an excuse and won't redeem him in her eyes she has decided.

"That was a very worthy wish. If he is as charming as you say he is, than he may be dead before the month is out." Her own little grin at the thought could be as reassuring as it could be frightening. Since they are face to face she gives him a peck before turning away.

Two bards together. That must have been a whirlwind. They talk that a sorceress and a witcher is a match for catastrophe, two passionate musicians seems to be of equal standing.

Jaskier makes a small surprised sound in the back of his throat--her question about his living still was not unusual, but the tacit offer to see him dead was a shock. He forgets, sometimes, that many of the people he knows are entirely capable of eliminating those that displease them--or, if they are feeling generous and inclined--those that displease him. He draws her close as she turns back, pulls her back against his chest so that she may stretch out as much as the tub allows, and wraps her in a loose embrace.

"Honestly, the cruelest fate for Valdo is going unknown," Jaskier muses with a note of smugness. "For all my songs grate on me, they are each of them nails in his foppish coffin. I cannot imagine how much he must have suffered when Toss a Coin first swept through Cidaris. Weeks after his thieving hands stole my music and suddenly he is awash in it."

He still gloats about that, about his own popularity with the people where Marx has failed to make a foothold. The face Valdo makes, each time, is nearly worth the humiliation and heartbreak he'd suffered.

"Now, before I ramble on about more past loves to my newest paramour--a terrible breech of affairs, I must say--tell me, sweetling, what scented soaps and salts would you prefer? We have quite an assortment."

There are so many hazards to life on the road as it stands. When your livelihood depends on the approval of your talent there is a heavy importance of money to add to safety, supplies and lodging. Bards are not known to be skilled in warrior arts. Accidents do just happen. Yennefer prefers blunt, direct methods for a statement. What statement can be made for life carrying on as it does? Vermin don't live long. Providence to Valdo Marx because when Jaskier speaks again, her drive for justice disappears.

"What manner of song does a man that chooses to go by Valdo Marx sing?" Her bias is obvious. And she nestles against his back. "That's some gall to take another's work and tout it as your own. Is there not a guild of bards?" There's a high council for mages to decide the fate of the realm. Not that Yennefer heeds them anyway.

The conversation pauses for real important matters. Yennefer hums thoughtfully. "I do want the lavender salt. Rose too." All the floral and sweet. "Do they have any of the lemon and sage soaps? I keep meaning to buy some in Novigrad. Business is so distracting."

"They do," Jaskier announces cheerfully and plucks up the lavender and rose salts first--best to scrub and then wash, or so he has always found. He frees his hands long enough to pour some of the scented granules in the palm of one, and then offers it first to her, should she wish to scrub her face or arms. He will merrily scrub the rest of her, given the chance.

"Valdo," Jaskier says and seems equal parts bemused and befuddled that they are still discussing his ex, "is known for his academic pieces. Fine ballads for courts, weddings, funerals, pronouncements, that sort of dreck."

Much though he maligns Marx, even Jaskier has to admit the man has some talent in the finer orchestral arrangements. It was why he'd fallen head over heels for him. Young Jaskier had been too easily impressed by a few complex bits of phrasing and complementary melodies.

Still, he revels in the obvious bias in Yennefer's tone. There is nothing quite like listening to someone as lovely and powerful as her as they distastefully inquire about someone he dislikes.

"And..as for a guild. Yes, technically? They're all a bit cut-throat, honestly, and mired in academia. It mostly comes down to 'Who sang it first?' rather than a question of who wrote it. I would imagine Sorcery would be the same--aren't there any terrible rivalries? Vying for positions? Salacious murders or trysts?"

The salt is finely ground and truly a balance of fragrance. It's plain to see that The Golden Fawn is not gilded. She will pay handsomely for their hospitality. There is a nagging feeling that it is all enhanced by the company. Yennefer knows a good bath, a good salt and a grand room well enough on her own. Everything about tonight feels heightened. Scrubbing with the tiny fragments loosens the lingering grime on her skin.

Yes, fucking makes grime. And she is not one to trample through bogs, marshes or ditches. Squalor was a thing of her past.

Music comes in shades the way that flowers do. She knows that much. Her nose crinkles. "Court music. Forgive me, darling but as whole it did not seem to hold longer than the duration of a dance. Perhaps your own orchestrations are different." In that way he takes to everything, his own fire and energy would be played out to a venue that can return even a part of what he gives. Lords and ladies can be so anemic. "I think the only way he could gain any popularity is if a dance were crafted for his pieces. As it stands there are so many variations to a damn waltz." Yes, court life was not her favorite time. All that luxury and no chance to enjoy it, surveying every occasion and making chances for his excellency to slip away with whoever caught his eye.

And who put her in such a position? Yennefer herself. Though she had faith in her elders, in her council. "Unfortunately, yes. There are so many, many agendas being pushed. Nilfgaard still on the march as if it were a crusade." Her head drops back against Jaskier. "I had hoped it would be more orderly given that the collective expertise is more an artistic pursuit."

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happily trips and falls into intimate bathing prompt

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