[Jaskier is very aware when Geralt stares at him, because it always has some secret meaning to it, which is often infuriatingly simple to understand if he gets what's happening.

He does not get it now. Jaskier rolls his eyes, plucking up a rough cloth to scrub at a leg, still caked in dirt from landing.]

What on earth? I can't make flowers, Geralt. I told you I only know one bloody spell. We fell in some. It's not like the portal was particularly picky about where it dumped us.