Geralt obligingly swiped two small thimbles off a passing tray and handed only one of them to Jaskier-- the other he reserved for himself because it took him quite a lot of liquor to feel the effects that he was certain, suddenly, that he was going to need to get through the night. He turned the shot up, swallowed, and then uncaringly dropped the glass against the soft moss-covered roots of the tree. "Do you care if she forgives you?" That seemed the first and most important question. Geralt wasn't going to get involved but Jaskier was his friend and all the rest were farts in the wind.

"And what is the other thing I am responsible for? Spit it out." Better now that later, when he was half-drunk and more angry and Jaskier told him that he had promised him to pick the embroidery out of some asshole's doublet with his eyes closed for entertainment.