Chapter Text
It’s winter in Kaer Morhen. The old, crumbling keep that for eight months of the year lay cold and empty now…well, bustles would be the wrong word. Glows. It glows with the soft, faint, warm light of family and home.
In the main hall, the centre of the Keep; the beating heart of the Wolf Witchers as Jaskier might describe it; the fire in the great hearth crackles and roars, casting the space around it into a warm, ochre light and softening the faces of those sat near it with that same gentle gleam. Outside, it is as dark as only winter nights can get, the wind howling and the snow coming down in drift after enormous drift, but inside the four Witchers sit in warmth and camaraderie.
“Come on, Geralt!” Lambert slurs, a grin on his lips, and jostles the bigger man’s shoulder with his own. He’s sitting on the floor of the keep in one of the several furs they have laid out in front of the fire, a mug of one of his famously alcoholic and almost undrinkable concoctions in one hand. The current one is especially potent, much to Lambert’s delight. It’s the mix of the nightshade and the floxglove in it, he’s sure.
“As much as I hate to agree with Lambert,” Eskel rumbles from Geralt’s other side, where he’s sandwiched the White Wolf between his brothers on the floor, “you must have at least one good story from the year.” Eskel takes a mouthful from his mug and grimaces at the taste. Fuck Lambert’s outdone himself at making truly disgusting liquor.
“Hmmmm.” Geralt grunts, unconvinced, and downs a gulp of his brew as well. He manages not to show any displeasure, but one eyelid twitches in a tell that wouldn’t be obvious to anyone outside this room. As it is, Lambert catches it and chortles delightedly.
“Ok, fine.” Lambert grouses, not letting up yet. Far too often Geralt gets away with all kinds of shit with just a ‘hmm’. “If I tell a story from my year, then you have to tell one from yours.”
“Lambert.” Vesemir rumbles in a low, steady tone. He’s not joined the half-pile of Witchers on the floor, claiming he wanted the light of the fire to read by. He certainly has a book on his lap, but all of the Witchers present are well aware that he hasn’t turned a page in well over an hour and has also regularly been contributing to the conversation. “It’s obvious you just want to share something you did with your year. Stop hedging around the subject and get on with it.”
“That’s not it!”
“You’re not fooling anyone, Lambert.” Eskel interrupts before Lambert can huff and bluster his way through any more excuses. “Just start telling.”
Lambert glares at Eskel for a long moment, eyes narrowed and is about to say something when he’s interrupted by Geralt instead.
“Don’t argue, Lambert. Get talking.” And, well, if Lambert has all three Witchers waiting for his tale, who is he to deny them.
“I taught a troll to play Gwent.” He smirks, smugness rolling off him in waves.
“You did what?!” Eskel splutters, giving the other man a wide-eyed look that pulls at the scar on his face.
“I taught a troll to play Gwent.”
“We heard you the first time.” Geralt growls. “We’re asking how that even happened.”
“Well,” Lambert drawls in a long, drawn-out way, grinning from ear-to-ear like a self-satisfied cat. “It started off like any normal contract.”
The town Lambert rode into wasn’t a bad size, all things considered. He was in the north-east of Temeria – right on the border of Temeria and the Duchy of Ellander, and up against the Mahakam mountains – and, compared to the usual shitty little sad, pathetic villages the Path usually took him to, this place was sizable. And sizable meant money, if there was a job for him. He located the Alderman’s house pretty quickly – hell, if this place kept prospering as it clearly was now, it wouldn’t be too long before this was a mayor’s house, not an Alderman’s – it was huge for this far outside of a town, two storeyed with painted walls. Damn, Lambert was really hoping they had a contract for him now. Something easy to fight, but that he could trump up into something dangerous, so he could milk this Alderman for all he could manage. Speaking of, there was the Alderman, coming out of his fancy house and wringing his hands nervously. Perfect. Lambert slid off his horse as the man approached.
“Got any jobs for me?” He asked, arms crossed, looking utterly unabashed.
“Any jobs fer ye, Witcher?” The Alderman repeated. He was a surprisingly young man, only a few streaks of grey running through his dark, close-cropped hair. He looked Lambert in the eye and worried at his lower lip as a nervous tick. “Well…perhaps we may.” He paused, thinking things over in a methodical, slow, boring way. Fuck, Lambert was never going to get used to peasants and their inability to do anything promptly. “There be a troll. Only he’s a good troll. Been livin’ many a year near the village an’ he repairs our walls on occasion fer a fee from us.” The Alderman paused again, chewing his lip, and Lambert had to quash the urge to shake him by the shoulders to just hurry him up. “Only he disappeared a few months back. And when he came back he were…different. More wrathful. Most of us be too afeared to ask him why – on account o’ his terrible temper. But…I suppose we’d pay ye, Witcher, if ye went out an’ found out what were the matter with him.”
Hmmmm. Well that was certainly not what Lambert was expecting. He made a small, non-committal grunting noise and considered the proposal. The town was pretty well kept, and a troll wasn’t the worst he’d have to fight this year, and he had some orgroid oil in his pack. Might not even have to fight it if this guy was telling the truth.
“How much you paying?” Lambert rumbled.
“I’ll pay ye 20 orens if ye decides he must be sent away or – Melitele forbid – killed. And…30 if ye can persuade him to be…kinder to our travellers. Like he were before.”
“Deal.” Lambert agreed with a nod. 30 crowns for chatting to a troll? Easy money. 20 crowns for killing it wasn’t quite as good a deal, but if it came to that it didn’t look like it’d be too hard to intimidate this Alderman. He was skinny and clearly a nervous individual. “Any idea how long he’s been acting differently?”
“Since he came back – 3 months ago or so I’d say.” Interesting. Not long than. Lambert was lucky he came through when he did. Could it be a curse? Could trolls get cursed?
“The troll live alone?” Lambert asked, rather than voice his thoughts.
“Oh aye.” The Alderman said and scratched at his beard. It was a messy, scraggly thing. Really, if he could afford a house like that he could afford to pay a traveling barber once in a while. “My father said he used ta have a lady-troll with him in his cave, but I ain’t ever remembered another troll.” No help there then. Not that Lambert particularly gave a shit about troll romances. Still, he didn’t want to walk into some troll lover’s tiff.
“And you’re it’s the same troll? Not just another one that wandered in when the first one went off?”
“Aye, I believe so.” The Alderman plodded through his sentence with all the haste of a drunk cow. “There be a peddler that come round these parts, and when he were comin’ from the neighbouring village he said he were near thrown from his horse by a boulder the troll had thrown. An’ the troll were always known to throw boulders in his fits o’ temper.”
“Right.” Lambert nodded, suppressing a snort. He hadn’t yet met a troll that didn’t throw rocks in its ‘fits of temper’. Still, if this idiot was willing to pay him to placate the wrong troll, who was Lambert to stand in his way. “And how do I find this creature’s cave?” The other man pointed out the road and Lambert nodded. “I’ll be on my way then. Just make sure that money’s ready for when I get back.” He said with a small, nasty grin that had the Alderman flinching away.
It didn’t take the Witcher long to find the cave. The village itself was in the foothills of the Mahakam mountains, and sheltered in against a great crag of rock emerging from a softening of pine and oak, ferns and irises that were blooming in the summer sun. A few miles into the road, however, and the unmistakable scent of troll began to crawl into Lambert’s Witcher’s nose, drawing him on a short trail off the road to the thing’s shelter. That was all pretty normal. That wasn’t what caused Lambert to stop, and stare. And scratch at his beard in light confusion. No that was because, over what was clearly a jagged entrance to a troll’s cave, someone had daubed in a shaky but perfectly legible hand ‘Home Sweet Home’. And then drawn some trolls on either side of the doorway. Female trolls. Lambert didn’t want to think about those paintings too hard, but the more he looked at them the more undeniable it got.
Nope.
No there was no way around it. Those were troll pin-ups. Someone had painted female troll pin-ups on the outside of this cave.
“I’m sorry, what?!?” Eskel chokes, interrupting Lambert’s story and staring at him with wide eyes across Geralt’s shoulders.
“I can’t think of a better way to describe them. They were pin-up drawings. But of female trolls.” Lambert reiterates, a small little smug grin on his face. So maybe he’s enjoying this. Just a little. Oh, who is he kidding. He has them eating out of his hand and he’s enjoying every second of it.
“Lamb.” Geralt growls, ploughing on as Lambert protests at the nickname. “I know you feel the need to impress us. It’s only natural, you’re the youngest – ”
“You dick!” Lambert’s protests get even more ignored by Geralt.
“ – but you don’t have to lie to embellish your stories.” Geralt has that infuriating little smirk on his face, when he knows he’s being hilarious but refuses to acknowledge it. Witchers don’t feel, my ass.
“I’m not embellishing anything! Plus we’re all Witchers, you’d be able to smell a lie a mile off. What’d be the point?” There’s no arguing with that, and Lambert can see it in the other’s eyes. Oh he does so love winning against those two. “Now,” he purrs, “if you’ll let me continue. There’s this cave, with the drawings and the writing around it…”
Lambert blinked once more and shook his head. Just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Who even did this? No troll had the fine motor control to draw that and he couldn’t think of anyone who’d willingly paint that. Lady trolls really were only attractive to other trolls. And maybe Eskel. Lambert didn’t know and he didn’t want to know about his brother’s monsterfucker tendencies.
“Lambert! It was one time!” Eskel groans. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
“Not a chance in Hell.” Lambert hums smugly.
“You slept with a monster, Esk.” Geralt chimes in before Eskel can defend his honour. “You can’t honestly expect us to forget that, can you?”
“With a succubus. That’s just a woman with horns!”
“And goat’s legs. And an insatiable lust known to have driven Witchers to exhaustion, madness, or death.” Vesemir adds in a low, disapproving tone not looking up from the book he’s not reading. “And I hope none of you have been sleeping around with those I’ve told you not to. Or I’ll have you all reading John of Brugge’s treatise on venereal diseases and misdemeanours.” That elicited a series of groans from everyone present. John of Brugge’s writing was stale, tedious, and monotonous; and that particular essay was also disgustingly detailed and filled with far too many personal asides about the author’s own lack of a sex life. Everyone present would rather run The Gauntlet 20 times before having to go through that tome again.
“Just get on with storytelling, Lambert.” Geralt rumbles, before any of them can say anything more incriminating.
If Lambert was confused before, walking into the cave didn’t help that. There were some things that made perfect sense. It was a troll cave, and it smelt of troll. And there was a troll sitting in it. A perfectly normal looking troll – a rock troll – with snaggle toothed mouth and protruding, rocky skin.
There were other things that didn’t make sense. Like the fact that there was a rug on the floor. And the inside of the cave was populated with troll-sized furniture. Furniture that was obviously handmade and perhaps a little crude. But still. It was furniture. And the troll itself was sitting on a chair. And there was a cabinet. And a little table. By Melitele’s tits there was a bookshelf with motherfucking books on. As soon as he entered the troll looked up at him. It had a book balanced between its big, meaty fingers. This was getting fucking ridiculous.
“Oh, I’m sorry, you snuck up on me there.” It said. And it’s voice. That was a troll’s voice but that was not how a troll talked. The thing was speaking with actual grammar. For fuck’s sake how much weirder could this get?
“…You talk pretty damn good for a troll, you know that?” Lambert blurted before he can think of anything else to say.
“I didn’t always.” The troll resounded, teeth bared in what the Witcher belatedly realised was a grin. Fuck this was such a weird experience. “But I have been improving myself. So thank you for saying, Master Witcher.” The creature’s eyes travelled over Lambert in a disconcertingly searching look, taking in his jacket, his armour, the twin swords on his back.
“Improving yourself…huh…” Lambert drawled, so far beyond confused that it looped right about around to eerie calm. “I…I gotta ask, who the hell did your cave art? Cause that is some detailed work out there.”
“That’s the first thing you asked?” Geralt utters, stopping Lambert’s story again. “Really? You have an intelligent troll to talk to and that’s what you go with?”
“You really were interested in those pin-ups.” Eskel mutters, taking a cheeky mouthful of his drink, deliberately loud enough he’ll know Lambert’ll hear. “Guess I’m not the only monsterfucker present.” Ok now that. That wasn’t fair. Lambert’s about to go red, about to splutter something to defend himself. And then a nasty smirk crawls his way onto his face and sits there like a chubby cat.
“So you admit you are a monsterfucker?” He grins, wringing a groan and a glare from Eskel.
“Boys!” Vesemir cuts in before they can descend further into name-calling. “I swear sometimes you’re worse than when you were lads.”
“So…” Lambert continues his story before the others can get in the way any further. Man, and he thought he couldn’t get any smugger. “I’m talking to the troll…”
“I…I gotta ask, who the hell did your cave art? Cause that is some detailed work out there.”
The troll made what could perhaps be interpreted as a good-natured laugh, and scratched at the smooth plane of his head gently.
“Oh, you like my little scribbles?” He chuckled. “They’re of my wife. And…well, thank you, I suppose. I think I did rather well with them, all things considered. It’s not exactly easy to hold a paintbrush with these fingers.”
“Right, your wife.” Lambert fumbled, gears turning in his head. The Alderman had mentioned something about that, hadn’t he? “She…still around? Your wife, I mean.”
“No no, she died several years ago. Before all of this happened.” He murmured, gesturing about himself at the furniture. As well as a troll can murmur. “But nevermind that, what’re you here for lad?” Lad?? Lambert practically chokes on this. Fuck he probably looks like a gormless fish right now. This is just so fucking WEIRD.
“Oh, you know. The local village sent me to find out what the hell has caused you to change so much recently. Heard you threw a bunch of rocks at some poor travelling merchant, apparently.”
“Ah. That.” The troll had the decency, apparently, to look sheepish. He scratched his head again and shifted slightly. “I am sorry about that. I’d have apologised to the gentleman if he hadn’t ridden away so quickly.”
“Yeah well that happens when someone throws fucking boulders at you.” The Witcher shrugged. "So what's up with you then? Why the sudden...reformation? Can't say I've seen a troll change quite like this before.”
“No I believe I’m the only one.” The troll said with a small laugh, and shifted again in the seat. Lambert was well aware this whole situation was really fucking weird, but it still was weird watching a troll squirm about like an embarrassed child. “I…was experimented upon. A few months ago. It has made me unusually intelligent for my species. It has not, however, solved my temper which is…unfortunate.”
“Experimented on…” The Witcher growled, his face suddenly going taught. Subconsciously he leant forwards, hand straining on his leg. He had experience with that. Experience that still left him waking up, screaming, in a cold sweat. “By who?” The troll bared his teeth and growled, lightly. And then cleared his throat and looked sheepish again. Well, sheepish for a troll.
"Do forgive me. The experiments were not...pleasant, and I find I have a few resentful feelings left towards the one who experimented on me." He chuckled, a little embarrassed. "I'm afraid I never learnt his name. He called himself - " the troll scoffed derisively " - Master Mage. Which I am certain was not his name." And if that didn’t rub Lambert up the wrong way, nothing would. Fucking mages and their fucking egos and their goddamned experiments on fucking…Take a breath, Lambert. They’re dead. They’ve all been dead since your youth. You’re not a Cat Witcher, you can control yourself.
“What happened with these...experiments then? Why did he do it on you of all things?” Lambert spat through gritted teeth, his fingers twitching where they laid on his lap with barely suppressed rage. The troll hesitated before he answered, aware of Lambert’s fury.
“I’m afraid even with my…enhanced intelligence I don’t really understand it all.” He confessed at last, looking small and cowed before Lambert, despite his size and overall…trollish-ness. “But I believe he did…well rather a reverse of your mutations, Master Witcher. He added human into me and it made me…cleverer.” A pause, and yellow, round, inhuman but empathetic eyes on Lambert. “And I believe I was just…a curiosity to him. To see if he could.” Lambert’s breath hitched, and for a moment he wasn’t in the cave but was strapped to a table, screeching as his veins turned themselves inside out and his nose filled with the stench of his own piss and his friends’ vomit.
“That is…” Lambert spits through gritted teeth, forcing himself back to the present, “…that’s downright disgusting.” He doesn’t want to believe it, that someone would do that out of idle fucking curiosity. But he knows there are many capable and willing out there. Fucking mages.
“It is disgusting…” The troll conceded, quietly thoughtful. Lambert gets the distinct impression he’s trying to gently steer the conversation away from upsetting topics. “I must admit I don’t…rightly understand it, myself. I’ve been reading; philosophy mainly. To try to understand, but I have a feeling such callousness is something I shall never understand.”
And fuck him if it doesn’t work, because Lambert finds himself snorting with a bitter, angry laugh. Melitele damn it all the image of a troll in some library – Oxenfurt perhaps – reading philosophy is funny. He swallowed hard, shaking his head and trying to refocus. He was here to do a job. 30 crowns for a peaceful troll.
“I don’t have an answer for that.” He grumbled. “But what I do have a contract on you, troll. Not – not to kill you. But to sort out the boulder-throwing and keep you here.”
“I am very sorry about the whole rock-throwing…incidents.” The troll admitted again, not commenting on the swerve in conversation. If anything, he seems to relax again too. “It’s just…oh I get to bored now. I…I never realised quite how pervasive it is when you understand what’s going on most of the time. And it…affects my temper, I’m quite afraid.” Huh. Lambert’s brain stalled for a moment or two. This was too much. Everything about this was fucking insane. And now the troll was telling him this?
“You're...saying you get angry because you're bored?”
“Quite so.” The troll admitted with another small, sheepish look.
“Right, well...that's not exactly an easy problem to fix. Being bored.” Lambert grumbled, thinking about all the possible ways he could keep a troll entertained. The local village didn’t seem to be doing badly…maybe he could do something with that? Lambert thought over what kept him entertained on those long, lonely nights on the Path. During all those nights with nothing to keep him company but his horse and a fire if he was lucky. And then an idea occurred to him. “Have you ever heard of Gwent?”
“Gwent? No I haven’t.” The troll murmured thoughtfully, scratching at his head again with his oversized arms.
“It’s a card game.” The Witcher grins as he captures the troll’s attention. “Two players, as a simulated battle between two sides.”
Lambert began to explain the rules as clearly as he could, and he quickly realised that the troll was actually listening quite intently, occasionally clarifying details and asking the odd question here and there. This wasn't exactly what he'd expected to be doing, but if it worked this was going to be the easiest fucking 30 crowns he’d ever earnt in his life. And the more people playing Gwent in the world the better, as far as Lambert was concerned.
“What a fantastic game! A balance of luck, strategy, and card collection. And with near-endless variations from game to game.”
“Fuck yeah it is!” Lambert smiled. Goddamn this troll was a bleeding delight to talk to. Once you got past him being a troll. “So…what do you say? Care for a round?”
“I would love to,” the troll grinned and really when he knew what he was looking at it wasn’t so hard to read his expressions; they were quite diverse in a…troll sort of way, “but…well I’m afraid I don’t have a deck.”
“Lucky for you, I have several.” Lambert sat down on one of the rickety, troll-made chairs and pulled out his card collection. He’d been working on it for decades and had several decks at this point. He started fanning them out between his fingers like a pro. He could show off a little if he wanted. He’d suffered enough to earn that right. After a moment’s hesitation he slid the monster deck over to the troll. It was his least favourite out of the ones he’d collected, and his least developed one. It just always felt a bit odd, being a Witcher and playing a monster deck. “I never go anywhere without them. Always good to have a game to play...for the boredom.” He added, smirking. The troll chuckled in response and picked up the cards, looking them over with a critical eye. He was remarkably gentle with the little bits of card, even with his big, meaty fingers.
“You have me playing the monster faction. Seems a little type-cast.”
“It’s probably the easiest faction for beginners.” Lambert replied easily, shuffling his cards and drawing his random 10 for the game. “I’ll play Northern Realms for now. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you. Just sit there and let me show you how it’s done.”
“Hoho.” Laughed the troll, picking up on Lambert’s easy sarcasm. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Haven’t you heard I’m devastatingly clever?”
“Oh really?” Lambert laughed, flipping the coin to start the first round. Melitele damnit the troll had a sense of humour too. He could get used to this, in a weird way. Now that's a claim. Sounds like you think you can kick my arse at Gwent. I don't think I've ever been beaten at this game.”
“Lambert.” Geralt groans and prods Lambert’s shoulder gently. The more of Lambert’s liquor that the white-haired Witcher’s ingested, the less gravelly his voice has gotten. It’d be cute if it wasn’t his brother. “That’s a fucking lie and you know it.”
“Shut up and let him finish talking.” Eskel complains from over Geralt’s shoulder.
They’d ended up playing for hours without even realising it, until the sun began to dip gently into the horizon. And, in his defence, Lambert did win most of the matches. And…well…he was only a little bit ashamed to admit he lost a few. It was just because of how good a teacher he was. Obviously.
“There’s just no way that move was legal.” Lambert grumbled with his arms crossed and his eyebrows scrunched together. The troll had just tricked him. With a fucking monster deck. Monster decks were supposed to be about brute force and numbers. And the troll was sitting there looking very smug...the troll had kicked his ass and Lambert’s pride was not happy about it.
“That’s always your excuse when you loose.” Vesemir interrupts from his chair by the fire, and all three younger Witchers can smell the amusement running from him in great waves.
“Shut up old man!” Lambert spits back with basically as little venom as Lambert gets. “You don’t even play.”
“I never play you three.” Vesemir corrects with a little smile. Fuck it! When could the old man be cheeky? “Someone has to leave you all with some pride.” And rather than deign that with a reply Lambert just scowls and goes back to telling his story. It’s basically finished at this point anyway.
The troll chuckled, waggling his eyebrows and collecting his cards back up again.
“I've only been using the rules you taught be.” He replied. “Hardly my fault if you taught me dodgy rules.” Lambert rolled his eyes and huffed, looking down at his own cards. He had to widen his pupils, just a little, to read the numbers on them properly – and admire the illustration of himself on the card. Because, yes, he had a card of himself (several, in fact) and yes, he loved to play it. And that was what alerted him to how dark it had gotten outside. Damn.
“Well as much as I’d like to keep playing.” Lambert grumbled, trying his best to keep a small scowl on his face and failing miserably. “It’s getting dark. I can’t stay much longer.”
“Oh...of course.” The troll said with a smile that was thinner than some of his others. “You have an important job to do, don't you Master Witcher.” Lambert swallowed, feeling a pang of reluctant fondness for this troll of all weird, stupid things. He had to admit he’d never come across a creature like it. It had almost felt like playing against an…acquaintance. Which was ridiculous. But there it was, he was fond of this damn troll of all things.
“Yeah…” He said in a soft, very un-Lambert-ish tone. “Yeah I do.” He paused. Usually he didn't mind just being called by his title. His name was something special. Something personal. But...weirdly enough...he liked this troll. Which practically never happened. He didn't just start liking people out of nowhere. “Look...I had...an idea. With the Gwent and the boredom and...whatever...” The troll raised a non-existent eyebrow, and gestured for Lambert to continue. “Well...” Lambert paused awkwardly, suddenly feeling foolish. But he’d come too far now to back out. Damn it, he was the one always saying that he’d never be caught dead being afraid of what people think of him... “You're an intelligent troll. Smarter than most humans. I know you’ll have no trouble learning how to lure in travellers to play you. So...my thought was, you could...could offer to play travellers...either they pay you a small toll for using the road or they play you.” He frowned at the troll with a warning glare. “And not throw rocks at them if they say no.”
“An interesting proposition." The troll hummed, rubbing at his chin with one hand thoughtfully. “I can't say I dislike the idea.”
“It’ll be...good. You won’t be so bored, and no one in town will complain about stones and trolls. Win-win if you ask me.” Lambert smiled. This was a nice outcome. The was, dare he say it, even better than just killing the troll. Purely because of the extra 10 crowns, of course. “And…just so you know.” He tacked on, mumbling slightly. “My name’s Lambert.”
“Melitele’s tits!” Eskel swears, grinning at Lambert with a wide smile that pulls at his scars. “Lambert finally made a friend and it’s a fucking troll.”
“Shut up!” Geralt blurts, jostling the other Witcher so that his liquor spills over his mug slightly. “I wanna hear how this ends.”
“That’s basically it.” Lambert shrugs, hiding his embarrassment in a hearty gulp of alcohol.
“You’re terrible at ending stories.” Geralt growls, eyeing his brother with a disapproving glare. “Go on, tell the rest of it.” Lambert just shrugs again in response, unconcerned.
“The troll’s name was Bill. I left him with the monster deck, went back to the Alderman, explained that road had a Gwent-dependant toll. Then went off to the next village.” He croaks, taking another mouthful from his ceramic tankard. “But, well. If any of you are over by the border of Temeria and Ellander. Go and give Bill a game.” He sneers to cover any lingering embarrassment. “You won’t be so high and mighty after you’ve lost to a troll.”
“What, you mean like you did?”
“Shut up!”