pushing through the underbrush on his own chestnut mare, grinning sharp and crooked There you are. Thought you might've gotten yourself killed in that viper's nest.

Lambert.

dismounting, slapping his horse's flank absently Don't sound so thrilled. I know it's been years since you've had proper company. He stretches, rolling his neck. You look like shit, by the way.

What are you doing here?

his smirk fades, just slightly Heard some things. From mages, from witchers passing through Novigrad. Whispers about the Wild Hunt. About the girl.

holding up a hand I'm not here to lecture you. I'm here because there's a name that keeps surfacing. One I'd never heard before, and if I've never heard of a sorceress, she's either a ghost or something worse.

A name.

sarcastically, with a bow of his head Lucrezia DeMedicie. Sound familiar?

How do you know it's not just rumor?

laughing darkly Because the mage who told me about her lost both his hands three days later. And the witcher who'd heard it from a peasant found himself walking in circles in a forest that didn't exist on any map until he swore he'd never speak her name again. He shrugs. Could be nothing. Or could be exactly the kind of nightmare we need to find before the Wild Hunt does.

a long pause You're serious.

When am I not?