"So, Witcher, do we have an accord?"
The man known as Reinicke of Kaer Marter glared at the scrap of parchment on the table before him, the elegant script sprawling across the page. Terms of employment, stipulations of payment, and other various instructions were outlined in a neat hand, leading down to a blank space awaiting a signature.
Across the table from him, a reed-thin man with narrow features and a strictly trimmed moustache leaned forward on his elbows, watching the Witcher with narrowed eyes. His stiff posture and clean nature stood out among the denizens of the tavern, but then again, so did the mutant monster hunter before him. A few furtive eyes around the establishment turned towards the pair, then quickly averted their gaze. Nobody wanted to draw the wrath of a Witcher, or whomever he chose to spend his time talking to.
Reinicke leaned back in his chair, one hand nursing a flagon of ale, the other holding a long-stemmed smoking pipe, aromatic wisps of smoke curling upwards from its bowl to hang in the air. The monster hunter's armour was simple, but fine, a set of hardened leather and stitched cloth that was clearly designed for flexibility while balanced with a moderate level of protection. At his hip, a pair of gloves had been tucked into his belt, their glossy leather well worn and shiny from repeated use. A duelist's gloves. As he leaned further back, allowing his chair to tilt on its hind legs, he put his feet up on the table, his pair of Wyvern-leather boots gleaming darkly in the dim light of the tavern.
The Witcher was tall, and lean of build, but muscular. His skin was pale from the mutations he'd been subjected to as a child, and his eyes glowed a feral amber. A short beard surrounded lips that seemed to be perpetually twisting upwards in a mildly amused smirk, while hair the colour of freshly tilled earth was hidden away beneath a broad-brimmed hat. Hanging from the lobe of one ear, a golden hoop gleamed faintly in the firelight, mirrored by the silver cat's head medallion that dangled around his neck.
Reinicke glanced to the man on the opposite side of the table once more, before looking to the papers before him. A swell of irritation rose within him as he read the terms again. He shouldn't have needed to deal with this. It was situations like this that had driven him from the castle in the first place, had pushed him to leave his School behind and seek his own fortunes out on the Path, alone. And now, the schemes and double-dealing of the Guild was threatening to drag him back in.
His mind's eye glanced backwards, to that distant day when he had stood before the entirety of the School and had openly spoken out against his Grandmaster. He still remembered Grandmaster Treysse's expression, his aggressive features twisted in a deep frown as he regarded the younger Witcher, his arms folded as he remained silent in the face of Reinicke's tirade. The icy chill of his words when he finally did speak, issuing an ultimatum to his former student- obey, or be exiled. The long, quiet moment where the pair had regarded one another, two powerful personalities unable to co-exist any longer. Of the heat in Reinicke's stomach as, with all the bluster of his youth and the confidence that his skill granted to him, he had bellowed a challenge to any Witcher who might have the spine to face him in a duel, and the distaste he felt rise in his throat as none within the castle dared to take up his challenge.
The young Witcher had turned his back on Kaer Marter on that day, disillusioned, bitter, frustrated. He had marched from the castle with nothing but the sword at his hip and the boots on his feet. And yet, since leaving that ancient keep, he had flourished. Individuals as skilled as he were in constant demand across the whole continent, and not just for hunting monsters. In spite of his training as a Witcher, Reinicke had soon found his way into the upper circles of society, nominated as champion for many a nobleman, or proving his skill against any number of opponents in competitions held in the many cities of the known world. Fairly soon, word of his prowess had spread, tales of the grinning cat Witcher reaching as far north as frigid Kovir, and as far south as Cintra. Many, Reinicke noted with a grin and a chuckle, were absolute fabrications, wild stories that exaggerated his skills and his charms far beyond what he had even imagined, but the truth behind the legends persisted, and was well earned. Now, he sported far more riches than any Witcher who had ever existed, and had drawn the attention of the man who currently sat opposite him. Or, rather, of the organisation that the man represented.
"This is far from your typical Witcher's contract." He muttered, raising the stem of his pipe to his lips. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled the lungful of earthy smoke.
"Perhaps, but you are not a typical Witcher, are you?" The man asked with a raised eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "And, let's be honest, this isn't the first time you have been offered work like this, is it?"
Reinicke could not refute that assertion, even if he had wanted to. He was not ashamed of his history. He had done what was necessary to survive, to prosper, to look out for himself. While others in his Guild might have faltered at the decisions he had made, he embraced them. He did not fear getting his hands or his conscience dirty if it was necessary. In the end, he could only shrug at the man's words. He paused, his fiery eyes flickering to the man's chest, where a small silver medallion could be seen dangling just inside the neck of his open-collared shirt. A glimmering disc, bearing the lilies of Temeria. Reinicke knew whom he represented, and what consequences agreeing to his terms might bring.
"If I agree to this-" He grunted, clearing his throat just a little. "If I accept your offer, then i have some terms of my own. Foremost being, I do things my way. I won't be constantly watched and controlled. I will not be leashed and forced to obey like one of your soldiers."
"Naturally." The Temerian agent nodded. "Shackling you within our chain of command would be a waste of your talents, Master Witcher. We need you to achieve what our soldiers could never hope to accomplish."
"Good. As long as we understand one another."
"And your other terms?"
"Payment is half up front, half on delivery of the trophies." Reinicke lowered his chair back onto all four legs, sitting up straight. It was only then that the agent realised just how much taller than your average man the Witcher really was. "I have equipment to maintain, supplies to gather, and a lifestyle to keep up."
"Done." The agent felt his pulse quicken, although he remained wary. "And... anything else?"
"Just one last thing..." A grin spread across the Witcher's features, lips splitting around gleaming white teeth as his eyes glistened with a mischievous light that unsettled the man before him. "I'm going to need a new set of boots."
"A pair of boots?" The agent's expression twisted into one of confusion as he spared a glance at the Witcher's feet beneath the table, noting the fine footwear he already sported. He looked back to Reinicke's leering smirk, wondering if maybe the Witcher was mocking him, leading him along only to turn the negotiations into a joke at his expense.
"Oh, not just any pair of boots..." Reinicke's gaze flickered a little brighter. "I want a pair of boots made by the King's own personal cobbler."
"I... beg your pardon?!" The agent was now utterly at a loss, uncertain how to respond.
"I want to have a pair of boots made by the same hands that make shoes for the richest men in the land. I want to know what it feels like to be shod like royalty. What it feels like when the king walks around his great nation. How light the steps of the rich and famous really are."
"This is preposterous!" The agent sputtered.
"It's quite a simple request." The Witcher shrugged. "If you can't even honour something as simple as that..."
The agent bit his tongue rather than offer a sharp reply. Realisation was dawning in his mind. The request may have seemed absurd, but the logic behind it was quite cunning. A power play, to test his commitment to making the deal work, and to truly co-operating with the Witcher. Slowly, almost sullenly, he nodded his assent. Reinicke's grin grew even wider, if that were possible.
"Excellent. Then we have a deal."
The Witcher leaned over the table, drawing the parchment towards himself. He glanced to the final lines of the contract, a momentary hesitation finding its way into his heart. An unfamiliar sensation for him, and one that only further stoked his irritation. He hadn't wanted it to come to this, but the folly of others, the scheming and trickery, had forced his hand. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the quill the agent offered him, and allowed his eyes to glide over the words again before signing his name. This done, he leaned back. He was committed now. The agent accepted the contract, nodding to the Witcher before standing to leave.
Behind him, the Witcher known as Reinicke puffed on his pipe with a preoccupied air, staring into nothing. The final words of the contract stuck in his mind, the words that defined the targets of this new hunt he had just embarked upon, the monsters that he would now call his prey- the mutant hunters of the Guild of Witchers.