Jaskier, who was entirely invested in Yennefer's story as well as the coy, sultry way she'd chosen to tell it (good form, that, he could appreciate it from the unique standpoint of a professional storyteller...and also she was pretty and he was drunk), was rapt as she detailed what Triss, the lovely blue sorceress, had told her. A creature that fed at the full moon, that was a princess who was changed back and spared a cursed life as a monster--Gods' it was almost too good to be true, he should have been taking notes--

And then, of course, Geralt had been involved.

Jaskier groaned and let his head slip out of his hand, an unhappy but overblow moe on his face. He finished his drink and reached to pour himself another. His expression was apologetic as he looked back at Yennefer.

"Apologies--of course he was. He always is," Jaskier lamented. "He's just so fucking noble and heroic."

He tops off Yennefer without being asked and then settles back in, adopting his previous posture, but now he has a sad sort of pout on his face as well. The moonstruck, longing look he's hiding under that pout is creeping through, around the edges of alcohol.

"Alright, tell me. What dashing heroics and daring do did our idiot Witcher perform?"