Yennefer of Vengerberg had stopped listening to the messenger as soon as the word "war" crossed his lips. He droned on nonetheless as she examined her nails for nonexistent blemishes. They'd grown since she'd last colored them, enough that a sliver of bare nail showed at the base. She'd have to re-do them soon. Perhaps she'd change the color, she was bored of this one.
Oh, the droning had stopped. She glanced up to find the messenger waiting in silence for her reply. One of the smart ones, then. She hated having her thoughts interrupted.
"I'm not in the habit of getting involved in politics. And I'm certainly not an assassin. I'd be risking far more than I gained with your master's request."
"Which is why he's offering a generous reward for your assistance," The messenger reminded her. "Ten thousand orens–"
Yennefer laughed so hard, she snorted.
"–And a title in his court once he's successfully annexed the territory."
"What title can he offer me that's greater than my own name?" Yennefer shook her head, smirking. "My answer is a definitive 'no.' Your marquis will have to win his war the hard way; Yennefer of Vengerberg is not a mercenary for hire." She made a shooing gesture to dismiss him.
He did not shoo. "I was told–"
"I don't care what you were told. I've humored you more than you deserved already. Begone, before I turn you into a pigeon and send my answer back that way."
The messenger paled a bit at the threat, but did not leave. "Forgive me, madam, but… I must speak. The marquis said that if the first payment did not entice you, he has a second manner of payment, and that…. that if you refuse his commission, he will send you the payment piece by piece." He pulled a cloth bundle from his pocket and offered it.
Yennefer raised one perfect eyebrow. "A payment for refusing?" She eyed the bundle subrotheriously. "And what, pray tell, is this payment?"
"Geralt of Rivia."
The scream was loud and gruesome and cut off with alarming abruptness. Not a minute later, a gray blob crashed through Yennefer's window. The feathered mass flopped pathetically in the grass among the grass shards before clumsily flapping away.
Inside the house, Yennefer picked up the cloth bundle. Her hand was not trembling, it wasn't—or if it was, it was only out of anger for the audacity of this bloody marquis thinking that she, Yennefer of Vengerberg, could be manipulated thus—
The cloth held a lock of hair. Stark white hair, cut raggedly as though hacked off with a dagger. It was grimy, unwashed, and stunk of sweat and horses. Her hand clenched around it.
Geralt of Rivia. It had been nearly a year since she'd left him and Istredd behind. Destiny seemed intent on bringing them together, but this was a dirty trick to play.
So be it. Yennefer could play dirty as well.