Well, of course. [And he scoffs lightly, the fingers of his injured arm curling. As the potion takes over both his mind and his body -- and on top of it all, Sam's magic -- he has truly forgotten, for the moment, what he was so worried about. For surely he was worried about something, the feeling slipped through his fingers. It helps that he can no longer feel it: the pain, his arm, or nearly anything. It is a sleepy sort of plane he rests in now, where the family he thinks that gather around him are not related to him by blood, but are friends and family nonetheless.

Oh, right. They're here for... ah, some reason. And oh, look, there's Geralt, a shadow of a girl riding his shoulders with emeralds for eyes. Geralt grunts in a boorish manner, but translated to person-speak, it simply means: I'm here.]

Oh, Sam, your kitchen is going to be so busy at this rate. [He laughs lightly, attempting to roll back a little, but barely even tipping his body. Mm, there's something in the air -- stew. Rabbit stew, cooked over a burning fire, and there's enough for everyone.]

Moglad, yes. You should play now that everyone is arriving. [For... for something. A party? Yes, a party. Jaskier, after all, frequents parties, and he has yet to show Ciri a proper one. As the moogle raises his paws and a lute appears in his hands, there is a song in the air as the shadow-Ciri touches his hand, pressed next to Yen.] Ah, Ciri, I owe you a sweet roll. You really did carry me so far...