[He makes a face at her easy dodge; he's fairly used to it from Geralt, but it's still so annoying, the way they make it look so easy.

His kneading slows down, distracted by her... oh, gods, her unnaturally unnerving imitation of a -- he doesn't even know! A horrible sort of woman he doesn't want to be trapped in a kitchen with. Unfortunately, she reminds him of the sort of women (and men) who would sometimes follow him from town to town.]

Stop that! You're scaring me. I don't like it at all. [He ponders flicking more dough at her, but decides it's not worth wasting. Instead he picks up the dough and strips it in three, braiding them together, with a snooty face aimed at her.] And make fun of me as you might, you're only uttering the truth. Obviously they brought me here knowing my music was sorely needed for these poor bastards. Not an ounce of cheer to be found anywhere. Nor talent! I still remember those knobs Thorne attempted to claim as bards. Absolutely dreadful.