Jaskier plucked up a piece of meat, a roasted potato, and eschewed his fork entirely as he sadly ate them. Yennefer's hand on his was oddly comforting and he let out a sigh as he accepted it--nay, reveled in it? It is reveling if it's self pity? Probably. His drink was warm but he had already indulged enough that it wasn't unpleasant.

"Well, at least there's that," Jaskier acknowledges and assumes that Triss Merigold (Gods' she sounded like a positively round-faced, warm, cuddly woman, didn't she? He's not sure how to feel about that.) provided him excellent care. He takes a sip of his warm liquor and sighs.

"Well, I could turn it into a song, I suppose. About a fictional kingdom, of course. Maybe...the princess saves the creature instead of her being it." It's rough, this sort of work-shopping, and he is not overly fond of fully fictional ballads. Still, the idea of a beautiful princess and a beastly striga is...there's something to that.

"Alright, enough about Geralt, whose turn was it?"