This is a picture done by the amazing TheOwlette of Philippa Eilhart from the Witcher series. This picture was inspired by a long-term rp I have with a close friend of mine depicting Philippa's life after the events of Witcher 3 in game canon. Philippa is essentially an ill, broken woman, looking for someone to help her with restoring her sight which has unexplainably stagnated during her exile. As a character I have grown to love, and am even cosplaying very soon, I'm letting her have a bit more of a presence on this page, as some may already have noticed. This post comes with a story giving some general context of the scene, and the run up for the RP that this image sprang from.
So, in accordance with my journal post, will continue to post some of the human art I've had done so this page doesn't just completely hibernate! I have one of two other posts that probably wont end up on here, simply because it would introduce a new artist to this page who I'm not sure has ANY presence on furaffinity whatsoever. Depends on what you guys think.
It was getting dark.
Philippa clenched her fists as she finally rose from her desk. It was a messy desk, scrolls barely hanging off the precipice and half ‘read’ books lazily slumped open on the messy surface. It was a world away from the meticulous order that the sorceress had previously held herself too. Not that her papers were anything of value. Not anymore. She let the weary quill fall from her hand where it ‘splattered’ on a half-written musing with the same grace and beauty as the spiderlike gibberish plastered all over the page. Another day wasted.
It was hard to tell exactly when precisely it was late. Especially these days. The mountains always assured a swift sunset as the distant sun slipped behind the snow-covered peaks. It was never too warm for long. All Philippa could really tell was that her already meagre vision grew fainter, and a persistent chill had begun to creep into the room.
What to do?
Philippa let out a deep, fatigued sigh as she walked out of her ‘office,’ her high heeled shoes creaking irritatingly against the decrepit wood below her. She just wanted to get out. Thankfully, by now she knew the house like the back of her hand. She wasn’t surprised to not even hear any greeting or questions from her maid servant who usually perched herself right outside the entrance on an old pine chair, her nose in some novel or gutter rag that she seemed to have an infinite supply of. The apathetic maid had likely already retired to her chambers. Good. It was bad enough being alone without feeling that she needed to ‘keep appearances.’ It seemed customary that she retired around this time. Whatever that was. Her mistress rarely seemed to require dinner, nor even request her company for a chat or a glass of wine. Not that Philippa even drank these days. She had tried, but knew quickly it was hardly going to be the solution to her problems. Not that anything could be.
Besides this maid Keira had ‘gifted’ her seemed ordinary in the extreme, as if the gods had tossed some dice behind their back, not really caring about the result. Although she seemed a competent chef, she was plain, uninteresting, and seemingly uninterested in her mistress’ business. At the beginning that had been a relief, now it seemed like a cruel joke as the former matriarch of the lodge finally stormed out of the house.
Fresh air.
The sorceress took another deep, more desperate breath as the cool mountain air almost tickled her throat. It was cold, and dressed in her usual pompous dress and ruff, she was hardly equipped for the mountain climate. But she felt cold most of the time anyway. Indoors, outdoors. It made no real difference. At least here the cold felt alive, the chill wind soothing her throbbing head as her cheeks burned involuntarily in the ‘night’ air. She had escaped. Escaped her cell into the prison itself. A mild ‘victory,’ but one that seemed somewhat tangible to Philippa now.
It had been almost one year of her implied exile into the mountains of Zerrikania. After Nilfgaard’s triumphant victory in the Third Northern War, Philippa had been eager to seize the moment.
Blinded, humiliated, imprisoned, forced to scrape a living as an owl, she had meticulously planned her return whilst avoiding the blood thirsty clutches of a fanatical king. None of these catastrophic ‘setbacks’ seemed to have dampened the sorceress’ ambition as she schemed, even before the war’s end, to see herself at the victory table. The child of the Elder Blood, Cirilla, had returned, and the Emperor, desperate to regain his daughter, had offered a full amnesty to the Lodge in exchange for their assistance. Whilst she had had to bow and scrape to the demands of the grating Yennefer of Vengerberg, things had such potential. Yennefer’s luck would run out, and the young future Empress would desperately need a skilled advisor and councillor, willing to aid her in a plethora of areas: Philippa was the perfect choice. Or so the sorceress thought. Philippa had taken a few more fateful rolls of the dice, even soiling her hands with the blood of her former ward, Radovid V, as if to irrevocably tie herself to the cause of Nilfgaard. Her sweet revenge ought to have made her a valuable asset. One who had proven her loyalty and utility to the Empire on such a vital matter.
Philippa had to admit to herself her plan was utter fantasy: a sorceress blamed for the deaths of three kings, the criminalisation of magic in the North, and of course, a scheming technocrat not above skulduggery was hardly something a victorious Nilfgaard, eager to stabilise their new Northern provinces, were going to want to have associated with them.
Almost immediately upon her arrival to the capital, Emhyr had bluntly informed the smug sorceress that her services were not required, and that she would be granted a pension with a retirement home on the slopes of the Zerrikanian mountains in recognition for her ‘service.’ She was not to attend court or council meetings, or instigate contact with the future Empress. It had seemed like a cruel joke at the time. Hadn’t the witcher teased that the mountain air would be good for her? In truth, Philippa was incredibly lucky; Emhyr had killed far less inconvenient persons for less. Emhyr did not renegade on his agreement with the Lodge, but the doors to power and her former zenith were well and truly shut. She was to exist in the outskirts of the Empire. Far from trouble, and far from relevancy as possible.
Philippa shuddered as she took a few cautious steps in the front garden, turning her head towards the house as her brow furrowed, her mutant ‘eyes’ aching in pain as she tried to focus on the specific details of the house through her blindfold. It was almost a ruin, a finely carved and located ruin, but a ruin nonetheless. It was a former barracks built in the initial expansion of Nilfgaard from an ambitious city state, to a Kingdom, to the Continent spanning Empire it was now. Before Philippa arrived it seemed barely fit for habitation, the floor and support beams seeming the only thing not looted or derelict beyond repair. Her pension was already being whittled away starting the vital work just to keep the building upright, and prevent any potentially fatal damp setting into the property.
That would be just their luck. They could probably even bury her in the place. A forgotten tomb for a forgotten sorceress.
Philippa grit her teeth, finally beginning to stumble somewhat aimlessly in the front garden. She had tried to take walks when she could: to maintain sanity, to keep some level of regimented routine during her exile here, but in truth, she had begun to feel strangely queasy climbing the constantly uphill slopes of the nearby mountain passes. Beyond some flowers, and the occasional bemused mountain goat, there barely seemed to be anything of note in the idyllic landscape of the mountainside ‘retreat.’ For many, it would be something to rejoice in. For Philippa, it was a death sentence. No politics, no banquets, no conversation. Just silence. A haunting, calm silence. No good, no evil, just. Silence. Alone with her thoughts. The could have beens, the queries the doubts. She had never felt uncertain before.
Another beleaguered sigh. It was not that her plans had once again utterly fallen apart, checkmated by the puppet masters of the Empire who had reduced her from a player to a pawn. It was that she had simply capitulated. The old Philippa would have been enraged. She did not lash out, boil an Impera Bridgade’s eyes out, or even respond with her fabled sharp tongue. Nor did she begin her next move, swiftly planning how to rise again from the ashes; perhaps by slipping into Ciri’s quarters to plead her case to the ashen haired girl. After all, whilst she had firmly resisted Philippa’s machinations in the past, she was surely sympathetic to the cause of sorceresses which surely Philippa still represented? She was still beautiful. Did not Cirilla still have desires? Could she- not-try?
No. Instead, she had given up. Packing up her things and immediately setting off towards her internal exile, a large stone barracks in the middle of nowhere. She had surrendered. For her cause, for her ‘people,’ for herself.
Philippa finally began to approach something of a target as she reached the edge of the garden, her acute ears picking up the fluttering of wings and clipping of beaks as if heralding her arrival. One thing it did seem the sorceress had enjoyed was finding these. At the end of her garden was a small aviary, perhaps the most intact thing on the property, even treated with a fresh lick of paint, feeding bowls and perches. When she had entered the house, run down and abandoned as it was, Philippa had found, perched in the rafters, as small family of barn owls. Given her strange affinity with the animals, Philippa hadn’t dared to chase them from the property, and had even let them reside there until the aviary could be repaired, and the inevitable chicks had hatched. It had been a rare taste of joy for the sorceress to finally move the owls into their new home. They seemed happy enough, even friendly as they occasionally showed Philippa their chicks.
But that had been months ago. Eventually, they had moved on. The chicks left the nest. To pastures new. Only the parents remained. Seemingly too old to want to try anywhere else, tied down by habit to this stagnant place. They seemed to give their usual greeting, chirping excitedly as if greeting an old friend as they rested on their perch. It had started to get quite dark now as Philippa barely made out the shape of the aviary, unclasping the small wooden door and holding out her arm as if to invite them.
They usually took turns, almost if concerned the old sorceress was too fragile to hold two at once. Given her pale complexion and wobbly gait, it was hardly surprising. Philippa had long given up transfiguring into her owl herself. Even that elusive feat had begun to feel boring to her, just as delicious meal could, after multiple sittings, begin to taste uninspired. Even soaring high above the mountain tops, her vision vaguely aided by the evolution of her form didn’t make her feel alive. It had become dangerous anyway, she told herself.
Philippa held out her hand for a while till finally one of the pair approached, landing softly on her hand as its claws tried to hold on as ‘kindly’ as possible. Philippa broke into a weak smile, her head turning to face the magnificent creature as she began to tickle under its chin. It cooed in delight at the attention, its feathers bristling as it seemed to relax in her care, content being vulnerable in the sorceress’ hands. To think it could be content so easily.
Philippa could feel a strange lump in her throat just looking at it, climbing and grasping as if the night air was squeezing around her throat. She wanted to look at it, but already she could feel the colours begin to blend into one another, its distinct face beginning to blur into a cacophony of shapes and hazes as her eyes ached in agony. She couldn’t really see it. See its beauty. See its colour. See its face.
Her eyes had stopped growing.
She didn’t know why, but they had.
It had been a technical feat to grow one’s eyes after her horrific blinding, let alone with limited resources whilst being constantly chased by Radovid’s witch hunters. Only Vilgefortz had accomplished such a feat before her, tolerating the agony of optic nerves bubbling in his own eye socket and flesh diluting into tissue, nerves, veins, colour. It had been a testament to Philippa’s abilities, let alone her pain endurance, that she had managed to succeed where many had failed. And yet, she had failed. By all her calculations she should have had a set of fully functioning eyes. The same eyes as if the torturer’s spoon had never gouged them out. Yet they hadn’t grown for six months. The sorceress felt weaker, as if her very lifeforce was ebbing out of her with every waking moment. She had been beautiful once. The Jewel of Tretogor, the Lady Owl, known as one of the most beautiful women in the world. Now she was a mutilated, failed, a freak.
She was alone. Alone with herself and her failures. Philippa’s hands clenched in agony as her ‘eyes’ began to burn in pain, feeling moist as if they were being laced in acid. Her blindfold began to feel wet, a strange trinkle running down her hot, burning cheeks as her chest began to heave, that lump in her throat finally making her gag and splutter. It was blood. She was crying. Her chest tightened as she did her best to restrain herself, trembling in pain and shame. This was not the way of a sorceress. She was not weak. She could NEVER be weak. The owl on her arm seemed to spook as it flew from her, back to its perch as the blood-stained sorceress looked around with desperation. It was gone. And it didn’t seem its partner wanted to try its luck. Clenching her jaw, Philippa closed the door of the aviary, looking down as if too ashamed to look at them. She turned her back on them, raising her hand to touch the warm sticky trail on her face.
She couldn’t live like this. She needed help.
But who could she ask? The surviving lodge members were doing their best to keep their heads down: Keira had gone AWOL, Fringilla was doing her best to keep on the emperor’s good side, Margarita would not dare to open communications, Ida similarly, and Francesca had long since removed herself from Lodge affairs, let alone Philippa personally. There was Yennefer. But Philippa knew she wouldn’t help. Besides, she refused to give that bitch the satisfaction of seeing her beg. It was her fault she was here. Now that her and that Witcher were settled in Touissant, a vassal state of the Empire, all hope Ciri would ever need to defer to her had been snuffed. Why take a chance on a scheming sorceress when one’s adopted mother and father were on her doorstep.
What of Triss?
Another cold shiver ran down her spine. Triss had always been agreeable to Philippa. Even somewhat complacent. She had obeyed her as obediently and innocently as a child, always seeking the admiration and praise of her idol. She was young. She would surely accept her request, even allow Philippa to take the reigns. But in truth, it had been years. And Triss had matured much since then. She was now the head sorceress at Kovir, the last bastion of Northern independence in the face of Imperial hegemony. Having collaborated with the King in order to save mages from the witch hunts that had swept the north, Triss was quickly catapulted to the starry heights of high court, already making a name for herself, as she had done in Temeria, for her expertise, political diligence and diplomacy. She was not simply an advisor, but a key player, having seemingly replaced Philippa in everything but name. A sorceress of the North defending mages everywhere. A leader.
Philippa huffed as she began to storm back towards the house. She would see.
Of course, she would need to write a letter. A letter that would of course be read by the Nilfgaardian spy corp. Other than the maidservant, the only visitor to the house was a courier. He was a strange man, with sundried skin and a vacant expression, seemingly entirely oblivious to anything happening in the world, be it politics, developments, even what day it was. Getting news out of him felt like pulling one’s own teeth out. It was highly likely he was a spy, playing the country-bumpkin to keep tabs on the dangerous sorceress. If only they knew just how impotent she was here. Or perhaps they did know. He would of course read the letter, or at least pass it on for someone to read. Every word would need to be innocent, convey the situation, and yet be agreeable to that little red head.
Philippa entered the house again and quickly strode to her desk, ignoring finally the creak of the floorboards as she sat down, tossing aside the ink stained gibberish and enchanting her quill. She could not trust writing conventionally given her eye sight. She would have to trust her magic to articulate the letter, conveying the elegant handwriting of her past in her mind. But to do so would require almost perfect clarity. To know exactly what to say.
“Dear Friend.“
That sheet was instantly thrown aside. That was not how a sorceress spoke. Let alone to another.
“To whom it may concern.”
Too formal. Too dramatic.
“Dear Miss Merigold.”
Philippa grabbed the paper and viciously smashed it into a ball, throwing it against the door. In that brief moment of rage though, the words came to her. Her tongue pushing against her cheek, she began to write.
“Dear Triss”
So, in accordance with my journal post, will continue to post some of the human art I've had done so this page doesn't just completely hibernate! I have one of two other posts that probably wont end up on here, simply because it would introduce a new artist to this page who I'm not sure has ANY presence on furaffinity whatsoever. Depends on what you guys think.
It was getting dark.
Philippa clenched her fists as she finally rose from her desk. It was a messy desk, scrolls barely hanging off the precipice and half ‘read’ books lazily slumped open on the messy surface. It was a world away from the meticulous order that the sorceress had previously held herself too. Not that her papers were anything of value. Not anymore. She let the weary quill fall from her hand where it ‘splattered’ on a half-written musing with the same grace and beauty as the spiderlike gibberish plastered all over the page. Another day wasted.
It was hard to tell exactly when precisely it was late. Especially these days. The mountains always assured a swift sunset as the distant sun slipped behind the snow-covered peaks. It was never too warm for long. All Philippa could really tell was that her already meagre vision grew fainter, and a persistent chill had begun to creep into the room.
What to do?
Philippa let out a deep, fatigued sigh as she walked out of her ‘office,’ her high heeled shoes creaking irritatingly against the decrepit wood below her. She just wanted to get out. Thankfully, by now she knew the house like the back of her hand. She wasn’t surprised to not even hear any greeting or questions from her maid servant who usually perched herself right outside the entrance on an old pine chair, her nose in some novel or gutter rag that she seemed to have an infinite supply of. The apathetic maid had likely already retired to her chambers. Good. It was bad enough being alone without feeling that she needed to ‘keep appearances.’ It seemed customary that she retired around this time. Whatever that was. Her mistress rarely seemed to require dinner, nor even request her company for a chat or a glass of wine. Not that Philippa even drank these days. She had tried, but knew quickly it was hardly going to be the solution to her problems. Not that anything could be.
Besides this maid Keira had ‘gifted’ her seemed ordinary in the extreme, as if the gods had tossed some dice behind their back, not really caring about the result. Although she seemed a competent chef, she was plain, uninteresting, and seemingly uninterested in her mistress’ business. At the beginning that had been a relief, now it seemed like a cruel joke as the former matriarch of the lodge finally stormed out of the house.
Fresh air.
The sorceress took another deep, more desperate breath as the cool mountain air almost tickled her throat. It was cold, and dressed in her usual pompous dress and ruff, she was hardly equipped for the mountain climate. But she felt cold most of the time anyway. Indoors, outdoors. It made no real difference. At least here the cold felt alive, the chill wind soothing her throbbing head as her cheeks burned involuntarily in the ‘night’ air. She had escaped. Escaped her cell into the prison itself. A mild ‘victory,’ but one that seemed somewhat tangible to Philippa now.
It had been almost one year of her implied exile into the mountains of Zerrikania. After Nilfgaard’s triumphant victory in the Third Northern War, Philippa had been eager to seize the moment.
Blinded, humiliated, imprisoned, forced to scrape a living as an owl, she had meticulously planned her return whilst avoiding the blood thirsty clutches of a fanatical king. None of these catastrophic ‘setbacks’ seemed to have dampened the sorceress’ ambition as she schemed, even before the war’s end, to see herself at the victory table. The child of the Elder Blood, Cirilla, had returned, and the Emperor, desperate to regain his daughter, had offered a full amnesty to the Lodge in exchange for their assistance. Whilst she had had to bow and scrape to the demands of the grating Yennefer of Vengerberg, things had such potential. Yennefer’s luck would run out, and the young future Empress would desperately need a skilled advisor and councillor, willing to aid her in a plethora of areas: Philippa was the perfect choice. Or so the sorceress thought. Philippa had taken a few more fateful rolls of the dice, even soiling her hands with the blood of her former ward, Radovid V, as if to irrevocably tie herself to the cause of Nilfgaard. Her sweet revenge ought to have made her a valuable asset. One who had proven her loyalty and utility to the Empire on such a vital matter.
Philippa had to admit to herself her plan was utter fantasy: a sorceress blamed for the deaths of three kings, the criminalisation of magic in the North, and of course, a scheming technocrat not above skulduggery was hardly something a victorious Nilfgaard, eager to stabilise their new Northern provinces, were going to want to have associated with them.
Almost immediately upon her arrival to the capital, Emhyr had bluntly informed the smug sorceress that her services were not required, and that she would be granted a pension with a retirement home on the slopes of the Zerrikanian mountains in recognition for her ‘service.’ She was not to attend court or council meetings, or instigate contact with the future Empress. It had seemed like a cruel joke at the time. Hadn’t the witcher teased that the mountain air would be good for her? In truth, Philippa was incredibly lucky; Emhyr had killed far less inconvenient persons for less. Emhyr did not renegade on his agreement with the Lodge, but the doors to power and her former zenith were well and truly shut. She was to exist in the outskirts of the Empire. Far from trouble, and far from relevancy as possible.
Philippa shuddered as she took a few cautious steps in the front garden, turning her head towards the house as her brow furrowed, her mutant ‘eyes’ aching in pain as she tried to focus on the specific details of the house through her blindfold. It was almost a ruin, a finely carved and located ruin, but a ruin nonetheless. It was a former barracks built in the initial expansion of Nilfgaard from an ambitious city state, to a Kingdom, to the Continent spanning Empire it was now. Before Philippa arrived it seemed barely fit for habitation, the floor and support beams seeming the only thing not looted or derelict beyond repair. Her pension was already being whittled away starting the vital work just to keep the building upright, and prevent any potentially fatal damp setting into the property.
That would be just their luck. They could probably even bury her in the place. A forgotten tomb for a forgotten sorceress.
Philippa grit her teeth, finally beginning to stumble somewhat aimlessly in the front garden. She had tried to take walks when she could: to maintain sanity, to keep some level of regimented routine during her exile here, but in truth, she had begun to feel strangely queasy climbing the constantly uphill slopes of the nearby mountain passes. Beyond some flowers, and the occasional bemused mountain goat, there barely seemed to be anything of note in the idyllic landscape of the mountainside ‘retreat.’ For many, it would be something to rejoice in. For Philippa, it was a death sentence. No politics, no banquets, no conversation. Just silence. A haunting, calm silence. No good, no evil, just. Silence. Alone with her thoughts. The could have beens, the queries the doubts. She had never felt uncertain before.
Another beleaguered sigh. It was not that her plans had once again utterly fallen apart, checkmated by the puppet masters of the Empire who had reduced her from a player to a pawn. It was that she had simply capitulated. The old Philippa would have been enraged. She did not lash out, boil an Impera Bridgade’s eyes out, or even respond with her fabled sharp tongue. Nor did she begin her next move, swiftly planning how to rise again from the ashes; perhaps by slipping into Ciri’s quarters to plead her case to the ashen haired girl. After all, whilst she had firmly resisted Philippa’s machinations in the past, she was surely sympathetic to the cause of sorceresses which surely Philippa still represented? She was still beautiful. Did not Cirilla still have desires? Could she- not-try?
No. Instead, she had given up. Packing up her things and immediately setting off towards her internal exile, a large stone barracks in the middle of nowhere. She had surrendered. For her cause, for her ‘people,’ for herself.
Philippa finally began to approach something of a target as she reached the edge of the garden, her acute ears picking up the fluttering of wings and clipping of beaks as if heralding her arrival. One thing it did seem the sorceress had enjoyed was finding these. At the end of her garden was a small aviary, perhaps the most intact thing on the property, even treated with a fresh lick of paint, feeding bowls and perches. When she had entered the house, run down and abandoned as it was, Philippa had found, perched in the rafters, as small family of barn owls. Given her strange affinity with the animals, Philippa hadn’t dared to chase them from the property, and had even let them reside there until the aviary could be repaired, and the inevitable chicks had hatched. It had been a rare taste of joy for the sorceress to finally move the owls into their new home. They seemed happy enough, even friendly as they occasionally showed Philippa their chicks.
But that had been months ago. Eventually, they had moved on. The chicks left the nest. To pastures new. Only the parents remained. Seemingly too old to want to try anywhere else, tied down by habit to this stagnant place. They seemed to give their usual greeting, chirping excitedly as if greeting an old friend as they rested on their perch. It had started to get quite dark now as Philippa barely made out the shape of the aviary, unclasping the small wooden door and holding out her arm as if to invite them.
They usually took turns, almost if concerned the old sorceress was too fragile to hold two at once. Given her pale complexion and wobbly gait, it was hardly surprising. Philippa had long given up transfiguring into her owl herself. Even that elusive feat had begun to feel boring to her, just as delicious meal could, after multiple sittings, begin to taste uninspired. Even soaring high above the mountain tops, her vision vaguely aided by the evolution of her form didn’t make her feel alive. It had become dangerous anyway, she told herself.
Philippa held out her hand for a while till finally one of the pair approached, landing softly on her hand as its claws tried to hold on as ‘kindly’ as possible. Philippa broke into a weak smile, her head turning to face the magnificent creature as she began to tickle under its chin. It cooed in delight at the attention, its feathers bristling as it seemed to relax in her care, content being vulnerable in the sorceress’ hands. To think it could be content so easily.
Philippa could feel a strange lump in her throat just looking at it, climbing and grasping as if the night air was squeezing around her throat. She wanted to look at it, but already she could feel the colours begin to blend into one another, its distinct face beginning to blur into a cacophony of shapes and hazes as her eyes ached in agony. She couldn’t really see it. See its beauty. See its colour. See its face.
Her eyes had stopped growing.
She didn’t know why, but they had.
It had been a technical feat to grow one’s eyes after her horrific blinding, let alone with limited resources whilst being constantly chased by Radovid’s witch hunters. Only Vilgefortz had accomplished such a feat before her, tolerating the agony of optic nerves bubbling in his own eye socket and flesh diluting into tissue, nerves, veins, colour. It had been a testament to Philippa’s abilities, let alone her pain endurance, that she had managed to succeed where many had failed. And yet, she had failed. By all her calculations she should have had a set of fully functioning eyes. The same eyes as if the torturer’s spoon had never gouged them out. Yet they hadn’t grown for six months. The sorceress felt weaker, as if her very lifeforce was ebbing out of her with every waking moment. She had been beautiful once. The Jewel of Tretogor, the Lady Owl, known as one of the most beautiful women in the world. Now she was a mutilated, failed, a freak.
She was alone. Alone with herself and her failures. Philippa’s hands clenched in agony as her ‘eyes’ began to burn in pain, feeling moist as if they were being laced in acid. Her blindfold began to feel wet, a strange trinkle running down her hot, burning cheeks as her chest began to heave, that lump in her throat finally making her gag and splutter. It was blood. She was crying. Her chest tightened as she did her best to restrain herself, trembling in pain and shame. This was not the way of a sorceress. She was not weak. She could NEVER be weak. The owl on her arm seemed to spook as it flew from her, back to its perch as the blood-stained sorceress looked around with desperation. It was gone. And it didn’t seem its partner wanted to try its luck. Clenching her jaw, Philippa closed the door of the aviary, looking down as if too ashamed to look at them. She turned her back on them, raising her hand to touch the warm sticky trail on her face.
She couldn’t live like this. She needed help.
But who could she ask? The surviving lodge members were doing their best to keep their heads down: Keira had gone AWOL, Fringilla was doing her best to keep on the emperor’s good side, Margarita would not dare to open communications, Ida similarly, and Francesca had long since removed herself from Lodge affairs, let alone Philippa personally. There was Yennefer. But Philippa knew she wouldn’t help. Besides, she refused to give that bitch the satisfaction of seeing her beg. It was her fault she was here. Now that her and that Witcher were settled in Touissant, a vassal state of the Empire, all hope Ciri would ever need to defer to her had been snuffed. Why take a chance on a scheming sorceress when one’s adopted mother and father were on her doorstep.
What of Triss?
Another cold shiver ran down her spine. Triss had always been agreeable to Philippa. Even somewhat complacent. She had obeyed her as obediently and innocently as a child, always seeking the admiration and praise of her idol. She was young. She would surely accept her request, even allow Philippa to take the reigns. But in truth, it had been years. And Triss had matured much since then. She was now the head sorceress at Kovir, the last bastion of Northern independence in the face of Imperial hegemony. Having collaborated with the King in order to save mages from the witch hunts that had swept the north, Triss was quickly catapulted to the starry heights of high court, already making a name for herself, as she had done in Temeria, for her expertise, political diligence and diplomacy. She was not simply an advisor, but a key player, having seemingly replaced Philippa in everything but name. A sorceress of the North defending mages everywhere. A leader.
Philippa huffed as she began to storm back towards the house. She would see.
Of course, she would need to write a letter. A letter that would of course be read by the Nilfgaardian spy corp. Other than the maidservant, the only visitor to the house was a courier. He was a strange man, with sundried skin and a vacant expression, seemingly entirely oblivious to anything happening in the world, be it politics, developments, even what day it was. Getting news out of him felt like pulling one’s own teeth out. It was highly likely he was a spy, playing the country-bumpkin to keep tabs on the dangerous sorceress. If only they knew just how impotent she was here. Or perhaps they did know. He would of course read the letter, or at least pass it on for someone to read. Every word would need to be innocent, convey the situation, and yet be agreeable to that little red head.
Philippa entered the house again and quickly strode to her desk, ignoring finally the creak of the floorboards as she sat down, tossing aside the ink stained gibberish and enchanting her quill. She could not trust writing conventionally given her eye sight. She would have to trust her magic to articulate the letter, conveying the elegant handwriting of her past in her mind. But to do so would require almost perfect clarity. To know exactly what to say.
“Dear Friend.“
That sheet was instantly thrown aside. That was not how a sorceress spoke. Let alone to another.
“To whom it may concern.”
Too formal. Too dramatic.
“Dear Miss Merigold.”
Philippa grabbed the paper and viciously smashed it into a ball, throwing it against the door. In that brief moment of rage though, the words came to her. Her tongue pushing against her cheek, she began to write.
“Dear Triss”
Category All / Fantasy
Species Human
Gender Any
Size 851 x 1280px
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