As he explained his choices to her, Yennefer wasn't looking at the menu. No, those inhuman, violet eyes all aglow were fixed on his face and watching, calculating. Kings had crumbled under that harsh, unrelenting gaze.
"It is completely the wrong occasion for white, I should think," the enchantress communicated her decision, "rare as it may be."
With that out of the way, she delicately plucked off her gloves, one after the other, and sat them in her lap. It was a subtle symbol that she was ready to get down to business; as they say, the gloves were off. Truthfully, Yennefer was loathe to combine business with such a location of leisure-- typically deals of sorcery were made in castles or mountaintops or forest glens. Certainly not in a tavern or restaurant. But this was not her world, or her rules, and Yennefer was nothing if not a survivor. And that was the difference between her and the Lodge of Sorceresses.
"Barkeep is a rather odd profession to bedfellow with a specialty in the disquiet dead," ever blunt, the enchantress began, "though perhaps one a good deal more profitable, if the witchers I know are to be any example. How did you come about it?"