[Geralt's dark laugh elicits one from himself, as he watches the extremely tantalizing show in front of him. Geralt has never given a shit, and Jaskier accepts treats as they are given to him, like an enthusiastic puppy. (Or, at least, as the Countess de Stael once said of him. Frankly, he does not believe it was meant to be complimentary, but he's always decided to take it that way.)]

You really are determined to ruin a man's fantasies, aren't you?

[It does bring to mind that a good deal of him will miss Skellige as well. The Skelligans truly understood his music in the basest of ways. They had always wanted the baudy, fun jaunts.

Alas.

He kneels next to his bag.] Stay here, Mog. [As if the creature has moved at all. He's still curled up, round as a roll, and about as warm. Jaskier removes his shirt, folding it on top of his bag, and then pulls the strings of the bow at the small of his back. His trousers follow, and then he is in the water, letting it lap coldly at his legs, then his hips. Water brushes over the scars on his arm, across his chest.] Looking like a siren yourself. Long hair, large breasts. A sort of fatal attraction to all of you. [He reaches out for the wine with wiggling fingers, pulling it from Geralt's grip to gulp some down.] Luckily, I know you have no predilection towards intestines.