Chireadan: You have to go in there, don't you? I recognize the look. I know how you feel.
Geralt: You're making me uncomfortable.
Jaskier: Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Do not tell me that this is finally the moment you've decided to actually care about someone other than yourself? Leave the very sexy but insane witch to her inevitable demise!
Geralt: She saved your life, Jaskier. I can't let her die.
(Jaskier wakes up in a room with naked Yennefer in it...)
Jaskier: Oh! Where am I? Whew! Um... Right. Good. Good. Um... Not to be... untoward or anything... But... did we... you know... do the, uh... Ooh, Go... Oh, no! No! Definitely did not butter that biscuit. Look, I am so sorry, but I've just remembered I left my... cat on the... stove. I... I really must be going.
Jaskier: Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest. It is one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?
Geralt: I'm not your friend.
Jaskier: Oh. Oh, really? Oh, you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom? Yeah, well, yeah, exactly. That's what I thought.
Jaskier: I've made you famous, Witcher. By rights, I should be claiming ten percent of all your coin, but instead, what I'm asking for is a teeny, teeny-weeny little favor.
Geralt: F*ck off, bard.
Jaskier: For one measly night of service, you will gain a cornucopia of earthly delights. The greatest masters of the culinary arts crafting morsels worthy of the gods. Maidens that would make the sun itself blush with a single comely smile. (Geralt walks off) And rivers of the sweetest of drinks from the rarest of... F*ck! (runs after him) Food, women and wine, Geralt!
Townsman: And it... swallowed... that witcher... whole!
Jaskier (taking notes): Oh, this is brilliant! Oh, sorry. It's just Geralt's usually so stingy with the details. Uh... and then what happened?
Townsman: He died.
Jaskier: Eh... He's fine.
Townsman: Look, I was there. I saw it with my own...
Jaskier: See? (laughs)
Townsman: Oh... What's that stench?
Geralt: Selkiemore guts. Had to get it from the inside.
Geralt: Go away.
Jaskier: I won't be but silent back-up. Look, I heard your note, and, yes, you're right, maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, smell chock-full of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion? It doesn't matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.
Geralt: It's onion.