[As they walk, instead of filling the silence with idle chatter -- practically Jaskier's greatest skill, really -- he plays with the idea of this swallow. He cups his hands around each other, and when he opens them there sits a slightly angry-faced swallow, squat and fat, but with a brilliant blue sheen to its feathers, deep as a sapphire. It looks up at him and chirps happily, bouncing up his arm until it can flutter up to his shoulder.

It really is a cute little thing. In time, it might not mind losing a feather. He'll even share his lunch with it in exchange.

By the time he's looked up from the work, they're. Ah. Tavern. Table. Alucard really suits the place, though. Quiet, with appropriate ambiance with lit candles and the smell of -- was that sage? He's pretty sure it's sage.]

Ugh, no soup. I've had plenty of soup lately. [The complaint is possibly the first time he's sounded Jaskier-y; the thought of the slop the Witchers claimed was soup in Kaer Morhen is enough to make his stomach turn.] Rice, though. Exotic. That sounds much better.

[Something that's about as far as what he recalls having on the Continent is the best choice. He offers a finger to the swallow and helps it down to the table.] How is this? [He gestures to the bird.] The color's a bit dark, but I like it.