[Jaskier hasn't really been paying much attention because this is all a sort of nebulous, stupid magic that he doesn't have much will in him to try to understand. It's not as if sins are necessarily a foreign concept to those from the Continent, it's only that... well, what's a man in a desert got to do with it? There's plenty of men in the bloody desert.

Though Jaskier does have an inkling this might be involved with the Santa Claus man. How many men could they have that you confess sins to, anyway?

Jaskier sits back and only perks up when Geralt begins to confess. For the most part he's -- all right, he's not exactly neutral as he listens, but he's remaining quiet, except for a "yes, multiple times" and "absolutely" and "well, you forgot about the one -- oh, no, there it is."

He's helping.]

I would also include the multiple times you've cursed at me for attempting to ride Roach when I was suffering from foot sores, or when you stopped me from killing Valdo Marx, or -- you know, specifically when you left me on the mountain when I was wearing the wrong shoes -- that is separate entirely from the other times you were a shit friend, thank you.

[A few more mentions of murder...]

This goes without mentioning the times in which you insulted my singing, or insinuated my lack of intelligence, or told me to fuck off (an indeterminable amount, to be sure).

I think that's most of it. Eh, at least fifty percent. Surely that's enough for Sir Claus. Good job, Geralt.