Jaskier was, all at once, apoplectic and morose--it was a very strange and exhausting combination to view on the face of any person. Geralt, the fucking fool, had fought for hours against a huge and terrible beast made by a curse and then, thought sheer will, had apparently saved the creature from years of hideous thrall. He'd rescued the forever abandoned princess.

"Of course she did, of fuuuucking course she did," Jaskier sang but quietly and swirled his brandy in the cup. The first bottle was nearly done. "And I'm sure he left without accepting any coin or accolade, didn't he?"

Does he sound bitter? It's because he is.

Jaskier, in a very unwise move, grimaces and throws back the contents of his cup. He sputters once he's managed to swallow the lot of it and blinks quickly and for a while as the burn crawls down his throat. Once he sets the cup on the table (drops the cup, he drops it), Jaskier holds up a hand to summon the barmaid again.

When she arrives he orders some food--something meaty or made of bread, something for snacking. He calls the woman darling on reflex and she blushes prettily before jogging off. When he turns back to Yennefer his resignation is back in place. There's a flicker of self-loathing then, but it's dashed as he lifts the rim of his cup to his lips.

"He was...alright, wasn't he?"