A/N: Lambert’s used to the new routines of mornings at Kaer Morhen since every witcher on the Continent moved in; breakfast time is no exception. Warnings: none, pure fluff and cute-agen.
Mornings in Kaer Morhen followed a similar pattern every day. The Griffins were early birds (“Lambert, in terms of humour, that is low hanging fruit”) and rose even before the sun had shaken off its eye mask. They liked to get in some Sign practice before breakfast; the crack of Aard as it whipped repeatedly through the frigid winter air had become Lambert’s rooster call.
He kicked Aiden out of bed with a soft groan of effort and then fell out the other side. A hand swept over his beard as he looked into the cracked mirror above the wash basin, and he decided against the extra effort of a prune that morning. When he looked back, Aiden had already gone, the door hanging open. Because the morning equalled food and holy fuck were the Cats ravenous bastards.
When Lambert arrived in the kitchen, it’s already brimming with Witchers. Even though the majority of the schools waited patiently in the dining hall, jostling each other for space on the long lines of narrow benches, the Cats just didn’t have it in them to wait. At first, Vesemir periodically lost his temper, thwapping stray hands with his wooden spoon and cuffing any head that leaned in too close to his pastries. However, now he was just resigned to the constant brush of bodies against him as he worked with Guxart and Keldar to feed their small army of hungry mouths. Sometimes the others chipped in to help, but the three older members of the new Order liked to carve out their own niche of usefulness.
