Chapter Text
Lambert wrinkled his nose while he stabbed his hunting knife into the chort’s neck. The relict reeked like a pile of used chamber pots; but without its head the witcher wouldn't get his payment. The only delight he could find in his actual situation was the prospect of slamming this ugly head onto the reeve's desk.
With a last glance over his shoulder, Lambert left the carcass. Not only had this chort been one of the biggest he had ever seen, it had been damn quick and agile for his physique as well. There had been moments where Lambert hadn't been that he would get the edge of the monster. Ultimatively, his long experience, the use of bombs and a pinch of brute force had helped him to aim the final blow at the chort's eye socket.
His horse, already neighing as Lambert had fastened the chort's head to the saddle bag, started to prance as Lambert mounted it. “I know, buddy, I’m stinking like a fucking dump." He patted the chestnut's neck. "Stop bitching now and we'll see if we can get a nice stable and some treats for you.” The stallion neighed again as Lambert pressed his heels into his flanks, but eventually, he broke into a trot.
The Reeve’s face indeed exceeded Lambert’s expectations. While he pressed a handkerchief against nose and mouth, he barked at Lambert to get this monstrosity out of his sight. His authority was considerably weakened by the fact that he gagged after every single word. But at least, he had - still gagging - forked out some extra coin for Lambert's promise to leave the town instantly.
Fair enough.
While riding on a narrow dirt road near the Pontar, Lambert pondered where he should go next. He was in dire need of new supplies and some distraction. A decent dinner, strong alcohol and maybe a beautiful and willing woman would be a good start. There were two obvious possibilities, Novigrad or Oxenfurt. Lambert sighed. He hated both cities. But in practical terms, Oxenfurt was closer and the alcohol there was better and cheaper as well. The town’s downside was its academy. Filled with boastful and precocious scholars, it was one of the loudest places Lambert knew. Not to talk about the myriad of visitors thinking that they’d get any more intelligent while breathing some university-filled air.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. He hated big crowds, hated how people looked at him, how they whispered behind his back. “Witcher”, intoned like an insult. As if it weren’t men like Lambert making sure that those disgusted people could sleep safely in their beds and go on with their stupid, ever so neatly composed lives. He could have had imagined better things to do with his life then killing monsters and getting stared at as well. Alas, he hadn’t been allowed to choose for himself. Instead he had been taken from his mother and brought to that fucking horrible castle where he had been exposed to torture and misery. If that was possible, he had hated this new “home” even more than his old one, had hated the witchers who has put him through years of misery even more than his violent drunkard of a father.
He shook his head.
Get your shit together, man.
All of this had been a lifetime ago. For the last decades it had only him, the path, and a horse as his companion.
As his stallion neighed, Lambert turned his head and observed the woods around him. He couldn't detect any suspicious noises. Maybe the journey to Oxenfurt would become a quiet one. It would be a nice change, indeed.
Two hours before dusk, he reached the Western Gate, on of the two official entrances to the city of Oxenfurt. From the high watchtower with the red tiled roof hung the city banner, the famous white ermin cross on red ground. As he rode through the Gate, eyed with suspicion by the guards on duty, he already heard the abominable ado the town was famous for. Lambert closed his eyes. How he hated noise. And crowds.
After taking a deep breath, he cleared his way through the cobbled roads to the town square, glaring at everyone who darted to look at him. After what seemed like an eternity, he came to a little park. He dismounted looked around in search for an inn. Suddenly, he sensed fast steps behind him. He swiftly turned to the right, but before he could completely dodge, someone bumped into him.
Great. Fucking great. One moment off guard and some idiot tries to assassinate me.
When Lambert turned around to see who had the audacity to attack him, he looked at a bunch of blond, wavy hair. This mess of a mane belonged to a woman wearing a brown coat, blue trousers and red boots. Over her shoulder hung a bag with a live goose in it. The animal honked, probably voicing its displeasure.
Lambert couldn’t quite comprehend that sight. The woman looked like a jester. With a goose.
What fucking person carries a goose around?
He stared at her, wondering if it was considered appropriate to have a goose with you in Oxenfurt, while she tried to get her balance back. Finally, she pushed some strands of hair from her face, looked at him and instead of asking for pardon, she just sported a smile.
“I’m sorry, but I’m late for my lecture”.
Before Lambert could respond, she shrugged, turned around and ran away. For some moments, Lambert simply stood there and tried to make sense of this encounter. After he had decided that this was a pointless endeavour, he grabbed the reins of his horse and went back to the city centre. After a few steps, he noticed a strange sensation on his left thigh. It felt like a breeze. He looked down and groaned. There was a long crack across his left thigh. This had been the tearing noise from earlier.
Fucking great.
This imbecile jester woman had destroyed his trousers. He fumed. If he ever saw her again, he would let her pay. He could demand her goose, for example. After all, he liked poultry. That thought reminded him of the nagging feeling in his stomach. Looking up, he spotted the sign of an inn a few streets away. On his way there he inspected the tear in his trousers again. Maybe he could manage to mend it. His mother had taught him how to sew very early on, and over the years he had become quite skilled. But that didn't change the fact that his expensive leather trousers were spoiled.
As he hung the saddle bags over his shoulder, a thought crossed his mind: Oxenfurt would definitely not become his new favourite place to be.