[ The touch warms her. Ciri groans, shifting slowly along the floor to pull herself closer to Yennefer, closing the gap of even a few inches between them to press her tear-stained face into the sorceress's hand. She settles there, after a moment, resting her cheek on Yennefer's thigh and finally, at long last, letting go just a little bit. It's difficult to say she relaxes, but she stops struggling so hard, doing her best to trust Yennefer, lapsing into instinct and the memories of lying in her lap as a girl, the surprising gentleness of her cool fingertips on Ciri's skin.
She smells familiar. Safe.
Ciri whimpers again, fingers curling tight to hang onto Yennefer's skirts. ]
W-will you... stroke my hair? [ she whispers, childlike. ]
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She smells familiar. Safe.
Ciri whimpers again, fingers curling tight to hang onto Yennefer's skirts. ]
W-will you... stroke my hair? [ she whispers, childlike. ]
...please?