[The comment has Jaskier wrinkle his nose. Alucard is far from wrong, unfortunately, and Jaskier has plenty of experience among the unwashed masses (and being one of them, but that was when he was literally thrown in a cell and he will not speak on it, thank you. Worse than the cell was not bathing for weeks.)

Annyyywaaay. No one needs to relive that! And today he's freshly bathed and smelling faintly of patchouli, which he's been experimenting with growing.]

Oh, when you're right, you're very right. For a success, that's what matters most. [He sweeps past with a twirl -- because he has to, his very body is brimming with the promise of this old place -- hopping onto the podium with a few jumps. His boots creak over the boards, but it holds steady. Not rotting, apparently, like the second floor. Far from reaching for a normal little chord, he sings a few lines from his ode to Lyfbringr:

But surely you know well this warmth in me,
Did you not craft it yourself?
When you grew me in your garden between bud and bloom,
Rose me straight from the earth?

Alucard was not joking, he thinks. There is magic in this air, because the notes carry, but do not echo. They ring warm. His skin bumps with goosepimples.]

Oh. Oh, yes. This is lovely. We're going to leave quite the impression.