When the door opens, it opens onto an empty, spartan hunter's cottage, an open chest just visible before the barrier swings shut again.

The witcher enters, weary, stinking of blood and silver. He limps a little from the gashes raked into his thigh by the werewolf's claws, his expression set and grim. No coin for him, after this. Only death, for his petitioner, for the wife, for the sister who'd plotted everything.

Wine sounds like a good start to his evening here. And plenty of it.