Yennefer (talking to a dead baby): Let's face it, you're a girl. Your mother was right about one thing. We're just vessels. And even when we're told we're special, as I was, as you would've been, we're still just vessels... for them to take... and take... until we're empty... and alone. So, count yourself lucky. You've cheated the game and won without even knowing it. Sleep well.
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.
Triss: So that's all life is to you? Monsters and money?
Geralt: It's all it needs to be.
Triss: You say this is all life is to you, but there is a vortex of fate around all of us, Geralt, growing with each and every one of our choices... drawing our destinies in closer. I feel something out there waits for you. Something more.
Geralt: You talk.
Torque: Of course I talk!
Geralt: What happened with you? Your mother f*ck a goat?
Torque: I am Torque the Sylvan, a rare and intelligent creature!
Geralt: You're a d*ck. With balls.
Torque: Balls I got from humans, who left our food filled with iron meant to poison me! (pulls out a strand of hair from Geralt's head) Did your mother f*ck a snowman?
Geralt: You are intelligent, I'll give you that.
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.