Telling any other person on the Continent would have transformed into a long series of compliments to what seems like the only goddamn witcher on this wretched earth. Are there even others anymore? What do they even do? Why can't Yennefer or Jaskier come across them to be enthralled or appalled by them? No answers. Just questions. Though at least they both can sit and soak in the salt bath. Tiny injuries smarting.

"Principle and virtue do not feed a man on the road, let alone a witcher." Though you'd think that it would. So very high and mighty, isn't he? Yennefer turned up her nose at her own thinking and not wanting Jaskier to topple off into oblivion on his own drinks more. Oh drat. Too much conversation is making the cups warm. She would do her trick again. The night was not finished.

The barmaid, Jaskier's darling, hardly spares Yennefer a glance. Fine, be that way, the sorceress was going to take her pick of whatever was on a plate. Yennefer decided this.

Oh, self-loathing. That was all too familiar. She reached across the table to rub at the top of his hand in comfort as much as pity. "He took a chest of coin and was under Triss Merigold's dutiful care. No true harm done. Another terrific scar, I suppose." No, she won't think about it. The cup had not yet been charmed to coolness, it didn't matter. Yennefer needed it in the moment.