[Ah. Well, that would've made sense. He should be so lucky that Alucard even bothered to stick around, then... but without memories, perhaps a caravan and song was good enough.

He doesn't mind going after her for the story. After all, she's. You know. Adorable.

Jaskier sees where this is going. He puts his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowing a little.] Yes. Why not? Do you think constantly traveling an entire continent, performing, avoiding certain death at every turn, and swallowing down weather-dictated hand pain is easy? I don't know where you lot get off thinking being a bard is a walk in the park! Also, I have slept on the ground more times than you have, I would bet. I have no issue with getting dirty.

[It's the bath afterwards that's the important part, not sitting around and soaking in sweat and grease and blood and dirt, like certain people do. One arm drops down, and he scoffs, but it's. Soft. He's not trying to take offense. He knows how he comes off, with his oiled hair and colognes. His rich doublets, the rings on his fingers.

His fingers, he would insist, that are covered with callouses.]

If I was not talented with music, if the muses did not speak to me... I would have to find some other profession in this world. Er. My world. Any world. And making something that people use to find joy, or solace, or comfort in -- that they use for the most lovely celebrations, or their deepest mournings -- yes, I would find pride and happiness in that work, thank you.

[Translation: I like wine. Also, constant supply of his own wine. Definitely not a downside.]