The Chronicles of Lambert (PDF)

The Witcher
A collection of short stories

The Chronicles of Lambert

Anonymous
Concieved on the 8th of the 7th , 2014. Contributed to daily by
faithful, God-fearing anons.

Contents
1 Lambert’s Revenge
1.1 Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1.2 ‘Merigold’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1.3 ‘Emhyr var Emreis, Tar & Oil Merchant’ .
1.4 ‘Odrin; Where are you?’ . . . . . . . . . .
1.5 ‘A Song of Tar and Flour’ . . . . . . . . .
1.6 ‘Dandy Loin’s WhoremobileTM ’ . . . . . .
1.7 Postface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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2 The
2.1
2.2
2.3
2.4
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13

Butcher of the North
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
‘The Kingslayer’ . . . . . . . . .
‘The Spilling of Elder Bloed’ . .
‘Lost; in Darkness and Distance’
Postface . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1

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1

Lambert’s Revenge

July, 2014.

1.1

Preface

“Indeed, Why do I love Lambert so much? It’s pretty simple when I think
about it. Lambert isn’t just the best character in the series, he might just be
the greatest character of all time. Just imaging him riding through the
fields of Kaedwen, the wind in his hair, his mighty steed below him. As he
rides through the blue mountains, the ladies swoon at his very scent. They
know how he smells, the essence of his smell is sold in Murky Waters
under the the name of ‘Widowspeak Orgasm’.
“The very nature of Lambert is mystery. could he be playing a deeper game
than even his creator realizes? The answer is yes, he has transcended such
boundaries as the written world, and has free will to do whatever he sees
fit. However, Lambert is filled with such guile, such arcane craft that he
does not even use these powers. Why, you might ask? You will never
know, for the mind of Lambert is not one that is easily penetrated.
“Lambert is such a force of nature in his realm that nothing can truly touch
him, the only thing keeping him bound to the game at all is his will to exist
within the preordained boundaries of his world. Lambert is not only beyond
the comprehension of us, he exists within a plane of true focus and beauty.”
- Anonymous,
Monstrum, or a Portrayal of Lambert

I personally dedicate this tale to all those who enjoy wodka.
God speed.

2

1.2

‘Merigold’

Triss’ house, Novigrad, late in the night.
Triss was sleeping deeply, when something creaked in the kitchen of her
quaint little house in the Noble Quarter of the great Free City of Novigrad.
She was dreaming about Ciri. Usually Geralt occupied her dreams, but
meeting Ciri again made her worry. The Hunt, said Geralt, is relentless. It
actually came to our world, he warned Triss, all mages should focus on this
threat, rather than petty squabbles. Triss didn’t comment on that. Mages
were either in chains or dead already. She was lucky, people of Novigrad
accepted her, although with reluctance. She was a mage, after all. It was
all her fault.
Something creaked again. Triss opened her eyes, wearily. A distinct smell
approached her little freckled nose. The smell of flour, bad water, old grease.
Above it all, though, the smell of ash and hard leather. A witcher. Not Geralt, though. Geralt ventured to Oxenfurt to meet Dandelion, Triss remembered. She disapproved of this escapade, as Oxenfurtian brothels offered
Dandelion discounts every now and then. He liked to invite Geralt every
single time he had an opportunity, the old pervert.
The smell of a witcher. Triss got up softly, more and more anxious. Was it
Vesemir? He was supposed to help Geralt with some contract. Charming
old geezer, Triss chuckled. She always liked him, he reminded her of her long
dead grandfather. Vesemir was probably older than Novigrad itself, yet he
was still fresh and strong every time she’ve seen him. Was it Eskel? Eskel,
the scarred one... She liked Eskel very much. Almost like Geralt. Eskel
made her skin shiver with pleasure, not always accidently.
The smell of a witcher entered her room. Triss rolled in her bed, moaned
softly. She focused her gaze on the room’s entrance. He stood there.
“Who’s that?”, Triss asked.
She was growing more and more afraid every second. Triss focused some
magic in her left hand, hiding it under a pillow.
“It’s me, Merigold - ”
Triss gasped.

“Lambert.”

3

1.3

‘Emhyr var Emreis, Tar & Oil Merchant’

Temple Quarter, Wyzima, midnight.
Letho stood vigilant. The Emperor called him here. So he arrived as soon
as possible. Just after dealing with Geralt, his old friend. Geralt was...
different, Letho pondered. Back then, killing that ploughing lizard, he was
the Wolf. Furious, yet meticulous. Powerful, yet almost gentle in his dance
of death. The Wolves trained their witchers well, mused Letho. Better than
Vipers trained us.
The Emperor sent him a letter, all by himself. Obviously some lackey of
Fitz-Oesterlen delivered it, but it was Emhyr var Emreis’ own hand who
scribbled these words:
“Witcher, You’ve done well. I expect you at Vizima the next month.”
So Letho came to Vizima, anxious to get his reward from the Emperor himself. He almost revered the man, although it made him feel uneasy at times.
It was almost sacrilegious.
In Vizima another lackey approached him defiantly, called him by the name
of The Guletian. Letho never really visited Gulet, he just adopted the town
to have some origins. Just like Geralt did. Geralt had to be told to do
it by Vesemir, the Old Wolf. Letho figured it out by himself. The lackey
told Letho to follow. They entered the canals under Vizima, reeking with
filth and piss. Drowners, thought Letho, his medalion shaking a little. Later.
They ventured through the mucky canals for a longer while now. Letho
wasn’t worried at all. Emperor commanded him to do so. Emperor obviously saw some purpose it that. They finally approached a tall figure, clad
in black, hood and cloak and all. Gold glimmered under the cloak. Letho’s
heartbeat would fasten, if it was possible.
The figure in black stood in the shadows, not wanting to be seen explicitly. Letho understood. He knelt on one knee.
“My Emperor”, He murmured quietly.
The lackey disappeared in darkness. He knelt for a while. Finally, the man
removed his hood. Letho raised his head, trying to take a look at the man’s
face.
“By the gods -”

“Lambert.”

4

1.4

‘Odrin; Where are you?’

Outskirts of Ard Carraigh, evening.
Odrin was but a simple soldier, he knew naught of the Wild Hunt, neither was he interested. His main interest was booze.
Ever since the victory at Vergen Odrin was some kind of a hero in his home
village just outside Ard Carraigh. Every man wanted to buy him a stiff
drink. Every woman wanted to ‘ride the courageous soldier’. Also brought
booze. Even kids gathered Odrin on daily basis, demanding war stories. For
wodka, naturally. Odrin’s life was nice and comfy here. He brought a lot of
spoils of war, most of them actually dumped by this strange fellow, kind of
an albino, Odrin would swear he knew the name...
That gods-awful plot with these fishy coins was uncovered. Odrin wasn’t
even questioned. Who would question the old drunkard Odrin? He was a
hero. The biggest hero his little village had since ploughing ever. And he
enjoyed it, the spare moments he was sober.
One day Odrin felt the urge to explore the woods in order to find some
dryads to mate with. His friends argued that dryads did not live in Kaedweni woods. Odrin ignored such hogwash and ventured forth, singing battles
of glory in hoarse voice.
Then he saw the man. Kind of funny-looking. Tall, pale, with prominent
widow’s peak. Lots of scars on his face, Odrin thought. And he remembered
the name of his friend, the witcher.
“Geralt!”, Odrin shouted cheerfully.
The man looked at him, suddenly aware of Odrin’s presence. The drunkard
was one of the best Kaedweni scouts, after all, he could sneak up on the
king himself, taking a shit behind his tent! The witcher focused his cat eyes
on Odrin. Eyes full of mischief and malevolence. Bad eyes, Odrin thought,
sick eyes.
“No, good man”, the stranger said;
“I am not Geralt.”
Odrin suddenly sobered up. It didn’t help him much.
“Then who are you?”

“Lambert.”

5

1.5

‘A Song of Tar and Flour’

Ned’s Noodle Bar, Southern Temeria.
It was a lovely spring day when Ned first spotted him, birds were chirping, children played in the streets, laughter everywhere. Until he laid one
foot on the village soil, time itself seemed to stand still, silence filled the
village as everyone stopped and stared.
The stranger paid it no mind, and strolled confidently towards the humble stall of Ned.
“C-can I help you sir?” Ned stammered out.
An uncertainty gripped him, as if merely talking to this man was invitation
enough to die by his sword.
“Noodles. Now.” The man grumbled back,
his voice like a growling bear and purring kitten all at once.
“Of course. Right away.”
Ned complied, filling a bowl and presenting it to the man, perhaps he had
traveled far, thus was so grumpy? He started to relax, surely once he tries
the noodles all his stress will melt away.
“What is this shit?” The man bellowed abruptly,
like a titan now, one could not ignore him. He held something up on his
fork.
“Ah, that is...pumpkin...f-for flavor sir -”
Ned could tell he was unhappy, why did he have to try his new recipe today?
“Piss on your flavor! Do you know anything about this craft lad?”
The man was outraged now, his booming voice weakened Ned at the knees
and allowed him to get pulled over the counter to the ground, where the
witcher emptied the contents of the bowl on his face.
“Let me show you how it’s done, Southron.”
The arrogant stranger pulled a large pot from his satchel. It was burnt black
and as it slammed on the counter the smell of oil and flour filled the air.
Through his daze of pumpkin and noodle, Ned noticed the town had cleared
out. A sheet of paper, blown from the witcher’s satchel landed at Ned’s feet,
he was shocked at what he saw.
A wanted poster, the sketch exactly like this strange witcher. Cat eyes,
scars on face, widows peak...and that smirk, gods that smirk. No reward
was listed, only one word was scrawled onto the parchment.

“Lambert”
6

1.6

‘Dandy Loin’s WhoremobileTM ’

A dirt road, West of Oxenfurt.
Storm clouds loomed over the forest roads, the smell of wet grass and stone
lingered in the air and the thunder made bearable by Dandelion’s lute.
“It’s as if the gods themselves weep to see me leave these lands”
He jested, eliciting giggles from the whores around him.
Even with such distractions, his thoughts lingered on his friends left behind. Zoltan, the stubborn, altruistic ox. He hoped he had made it to
safety. Triss, beautiful and deadly. Dandelion knew she could handle herself. Most of all he feared for Geralt, always reckless, he did not wish to see
him die a second time.
A clap of thunder knocked Dandelion out of his daze and he was shocked
to discover the carriage had halted, the once jolly whores in his company
had now become horrified, their eyes fixated on the carriage window over
Dandelion’s shoulder. He felt dizzy, had he truly been so lost in thought
that he didn’t notice anything? Suddenly he heard a loud wet thunk behind
him, he turned just in time to see.
Glowing eyes, cat like, a witcher without a doubt. Fear crept over him,
it was hard to make out the figure through the blood stained glass, all he
could see was what appeared to be a widow’s peak before he vanished, Dandelion could see his shadow moving around the carriage. He was paralyzed
with fear now, his mind racing as to what the man’s motives could be.
The figure stopped by the carriage door, his silhouette clearly visible and
for a moment Dandelion felt an unnatural calm.
‘It must be Geralt!’ he reassured himself,
‘I must’ve gotten involved with the wrong crowd and he’s bailing me out
as usual!’
“Geralt! Is that you?” He shouted out the door.
But he received no reply, an ungodly stench filled the carriage once the door
burst open, like flour boiled in hot tar.
“No Daffodil, not this time.”
The figure entered the carriage, now illuminated his smirk was unmistakeable, the whores began shrieking and fainting.
“Gods please no -”

“Lambert”
7

1.7

Postface

“Observe his playful smile, his gorgeous and rippling biceps, his gallant
nose, and most importantly, his eyes. His eyes, like pools of honey, provide
the only glimpse into the true machinations of Lambert.
“Do not stare into them. Many good men have gone mad in the attempt.
Lambert is not just a character, a formless collection of words and images,
he is himself is the binding that holds the saga together. Without Lambert,
the entire series, the entire world of The Northern Kingdoms as we know it
crumbles.
“The Pontar and Yaruga would stop flowing without Lambert, Vizima
would become a desolate crater, and Kaer Morhen would crumble without
his watchful gaze.”
- Dandelion

“Krrrrwa motherfuker!”
- Field Marshal Duda

8

2

The Butcher of the North

July, 2014.

2.1

Preface
“Geralt kicked at the cheap door. It broken to pieces under his armored
boot. Shani gasped from inside.

“She was nude, in her brass bath, trying to clean off the stains of everyday
hardships at the hospital. Geralt didn’t wait any longer.
“He dropped his pants immediately, removing his jacket at the same time.
Shani tried to cry out for help, but he managed to put his strong hand on
her mouth just in time.”
- Dandelion,
A Half Century of Memoirs,
Chapter 2: My Threesome Encounters

“Why, it was none other than the witches of Thanedd Island who betrayed
our kings, assassinating the King of Redania! Why, it is none other than
the elven witch of Dol Blathanna who incites the Squirrels against us!
“You see now, what familiarity with witches has bought us! Tolerance of
their filthy practices! Turning a blind eye to their arbitrariness, their
insolent pride, their wealth! And who is to blame?
“The Kings! The self-satisfied leaders have renounced the gods, expelled the
priests who held positions on their councils, and replaced them with witches
who were awarded with honours and gold! And here is the result!”
- Lambert,
The Kingslayer’s Manifesto

9

2.2

‘The Kingslayer’

The Royal Castle, Tretogor, mid afternoon.
Radovid the Stern sighed as soon as he was certain nobody in the vicinity could hear it. The Nilfgaardian invasion made him even more angry at
usual, and Radovidhimself would admit that he was quick to anger. Philippa
Eilhart taught him how to mask the anger. How to reforge it like good steel,
into a weapon of unlimited power. Masterfully controlled emotions were the
greatest weapons a politician could use, said Philippa once.
The ploughing cunt.
Radovid hated every facet of her personality. Her pragmatic outlook, her
perfect manners, her constant readiness to face anything! Radovid hated her
every second of his life after his father was assassinated. By her, obviously.
The young king lead his steps to the sleeping chamber to take a quick nap.
Probably work a little on that child Adda was carrying in her womb. She
was a sweet girl, although a little childish in many aspects. Radovid wasn’t
superstitious. Living under the shadow of Philippa Eilhart rendered him of
this.
“Adda, are you here?”, asked Radovid, entering the chamber.
It was empty, she probably went somewhere with her friends, Temerian
ladies. Radovid’s spies, of course.
Once he sat in his well-worn armchair and closed his eyes to give them
some rest, the door closed quietly. Radovid sighed. The dagger was too far.
The crossbow was unloaded. Even the bloody book was too small to stun
an assailant.
Radovid closed his eyes, ready to meet his fate. The man in black garb
smiled and nodded, admiring young king’s professional approach to own assassination.
Radovid managed to utter a single word, before having a blade driven deep
between his ribs:
“Kurwa.”

10

2.3

‘The Spilling of Elder Bloed’

Village of Glyswen, in Geso, early morning.
Ciri curled up in a ball and shivered, a deep shudder not just in reaction to
the cold floor.
“Falka?” Questioned one of the Rats,
A man who looked too old and had seen too many scars to be part of the
gang;
“Are you alright?”
Ciri was afraid to open her mouth in response; lest the emotions she was so
painfully suppressing were to burst out in a pitiful sob. Observing with a
sympathetic eye, the man said comfortingly,
“Shh, no tears, only dreams now,” and then approached her in silence.
As he squatted down and brushed his raspy hand along her hair, Ciri let out
a frightened cry. He put a finger to her mouth and began to open her shirt;
not forcefully, but with an authority she couldn’t fight, not in her current
state. All she could think about was the smell of his fingers. Hot tar and
burning flour.
“Stop!” Said the immediately recognisably deep voice of Mistle,
Ciri’s partner in crime and in bed;
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man turned his head towards the voice slowly, lifted his hand from
Ciri’s flat and unremarkable breasts, and moved it towards his sword. Mistle looked into his eyes and gasped. They were not human.
“I am your greatest fear,” said the man, in a cold and emotionless tone.
Suddenly, his sword seemed to teleport from its sheath into his firm grasp.
Mistle and Ciri gasped in unison. The man then executed a perfect pirouette
and gracefully nicked the cartoid arteries of the girls in a swift movement,
like lightning. As they lay in a pool of blood and Lambert dissapeared off
into the darkness, Mistle took the liberty to fondle Ciri’s flat chest one last
time.

“Because why the fuck not?”
-Hotsporn

11

2.4

‘Lost; in Darkness and Distance’

Redanian countryside, early morning.
Nilfgaardians didn’t come this far. Everything was pleasant and lovely here,
people were generally happy, even dogs were barking with somewhat puppylike enthusiasm.
Eskel didn’t share the joy of the countrymen. Geralt had sent him a letter,
obviously with Triss’ help. The letter was delivered by a magical kestrel. A
black kestrel. Well, it must have been Triss. The other one was dead. So
Eskel heard. Never liked her much, anyway. Geralt was like a brother to
him, the only man Eskel ever cared about. Yennefer had obviously hurt his
brother too many times.
The countryside was too ploughing joyful for Eskel’s taste, no-one asked
him to deal with no monster at all, as if even these buggers enjoyed themselves rather than spread murder and carnage today.
Finally he spotted a wasted poster, badly written in Redanian dialect.
“A Vytcher, Kyller fur Hyre, by the Name of Lambertus goes, to be
Kylled and his Carcasse delyvered to Trettogore.”
Lambert always unnerved Eskel, ever since they were still kids. He was a bit
younger, a bit more quiet in his ways, a bit more resistant to the cruelties
of witchers’ training. As if Destiny has chosen him to fulfill some grand task.
Riding his old, grumpy horse Eskel followed the path to Novigrad, musing about the poster. Some hunched figure in black cloak passed by him.
“Hey, you! Got any work for a witcher?” Eskel asked the man.
It was by habit, he wasn’t expecting a positive answer.
He also wasn’t expecting the man to pull out a loaded crossbow, lightning
fast, and shoot Eskel full in the face, though.
The man removed his cloaked and chuckled, stroking his prominent widow’s
peak.

12

2.5

Postface

“He dragged her, wet and kicking, out of her bath. He spread her on her
rickety bed against her will. The time was ripe, Shani saw that glint in his
eye. She only hoped he will be merciful.
“Geralt unsheathed his sword, renouned for it’s tempered, hardened edge.
Shani moaned deeply as he drove deep into her loins.
“Meanwhile, Lambert observed the whole affair from the outside, looking
through the window. ‘Damn’, he thought, ‘he was faster’.”
- Dandelion,
A Half Century of Memoirs,
Chapter 2: My Threesome Encounters

“Since the beginning of time woman has been the seat of evil! The tool of
Chaos, the partner in the conspiracy against the world and the male
gender! A woman is ruled by carnal lust, Countrymen! Therefore, she
readily serves demons to be able to satisfy her insatiable and unnatural
lust!”
- Dead Priest,
Former practicer in the village of Breza

13