[All this time, all this magic, and Jaskier has never gained a power to hear thoughts. He's heard of such a thing -- maybe even craved it here or there (he is, after all, a bit nosey) -- but he's never needed such a power to read Geralt's mind, to know when he's swirling in something maudlin and, if you ask him, positively boring. He has lived far too long to live in what-ifs or who-knows.

At any rate, he's happy the Maw is quiet today. The cultists are a bloody bore, too; at least he's earned the patience he has to deal with Geralt.

(Affectionately.)

Jaskier no longer needs to weave, nor pull, nor concentrate. Magic is him. A fact that reminds him of someone -- Istredd, maybe? -- who always seems to have been that way. He tosses the peach into the Maw's gaping, well, maw, and coos at it a bit.]

How have you been, puppet? Those horrible cultists being nice to you, I hope? Getting lots of protein? [There's absolutely no reaction to a single peach, and Jaskier hops into the tree to stand on a branch, shaking it, until more and more peaches tumble out and fall into the dark of the creature's gullet.] Did I ever tell you about when they threw me in? I couldn't forget that smell for years. Awful experience, I wouldn't recommend it.