[ Geralt isn't certain either. All he knows is Jaskier has only two spells he's been refining again and again: his birds and his plants, the latter of which simply burst out of him one day. Other than a small healing spell once or twice, he's never seen Jaskier cast anything else. But Jaskier's always been especially talented with his hands and mind. It reminds Geralt of watching him pluck at a single composition, at his lute, for weeks on end, long after the song sounded decent to untrained ears. In some ways, it feels fitting to Geralt for his friend to finally have a spell or two at his fingertips. Entirely benign ones at that—spells that seem to have grown out of a desire to share what he can create with others.

It's not unlike how Wild Magic seems to suit Julie well, or Nadine's carefully crafted elixirs her. There's something to it, often, how Chaos manifests in a person.

As for him—he tilts his head in something of a shrug. ] Somewhat. More durable, lasts longer. Witchers, our aptitude was born of our mutations. We were forged in magic. I feel it, but I'm also made of it. [ He hesitates. ] I don't know. I've always been a little...different. Than the others.

[ It's difficult for him to say. Most people go through their lives knowing where they came from, intimately. He does not. He has vague memories of his mother, rumours of his father, and no one to fully explain what the additional Trials did to him other than cause his hair to turn white. Perhaps make him faster, stronger, by some amount. Survive more.

Frankly, Julie's the first to even ask him. Back home, it was never—he just was what he was. Could do what he could, and if he made it out in one piece, then that was enough. Almost no one alive knows a damn thing about Witchers anymore. ]