"As you wish," Jaskier says, smiling and delighted as he pushes himself up off the bed. It takes some doing and, admittedly, he lets out a sigh of effort--he is tired to his bones and already feeling the soreness her pretty cock has wrought in him. It is something to savor, that lovely burn, but it will be an ordeal come morning. Ah, he is getting too old for such fun.

He pulls on his trousers and fastens the topmost clasp of them. He foregoes his lacing and simply lets his half-open chemise cover the undone stretches of his pants. He shall not be gone long, it seems, because he does not even glance at his lute or doublet as he walks to the door. He does comb his fingers back through his hair, but it is an easy motion that, truly, does little to fix it.

The maid is nowhere to be found, absent entirely from the hall outside their door. He is forced to walk down the steps and to the innkeep at the desk. The man gives him a stern but, frankly, approving look and hums with appropriate seriousness as Jaskier makes his requests. The bathwater will take time to heat, as will the apples to press, so he settles and waits for the latter and (to some degree) the former.

He returns ten minutes hence, a pitcher and two glasses in hand, and the innkeeper respectfully behind. The man doesn't enter their room--it is not hard to guess at the state of undress to be found within, and Jaskier sets the juice aside as he takes over the movement of the tub.

"A maid will be by with water, and with the requisite accouterments, shortly. Until then, your juice?"