"But it was a random mage that threw me here!" He exclaims with a return of the dramatics, both hands thrown in the air to match his exasperation. "I didn't go to anyone special, it was just a dipstick of a witch working at a city for easy coin!"

Usually this would be one of those moments where he wouldn't mind to quickly agree with Geralt - he likes observing magic and monsters, but not meddling with it. People may like to make fun of his sense of self-preservation, but Jaskier still knows what to run away from. And something that not even a witcher wants to touch is high on that list, if not top spot.

That's a rational line of thinking, however, and Jaskier is feeling many things at the moment, but rational isn't one of them. He wants to be out of here as soon as possible, to leave before this world where Geralt is gentle and wants him around pushes his anger away and plants the seeds of hope again.

He can't go through that again. He can't.

Luckily the witcher knows exactly what he needs: to drown his sorrows in alcohol. Jaskier doesn't hesitate to grab the glass and chug the vodka in one go, letting the liquor do its thing as he slowly accepts the inevitable aspect of his current situation.

"Bollocks." He mumbles with a little sigh as he puts the glass back on the table with a little more force than he intended, the sound of it hitting the wood echoing in the dining room. He finally dares to look at Geralt then, mind braver with alcohol in his veins, and makes a grabby hand at the witcher. "If you're going to contact Yennefer, then pass me the bottle."

Because there's no way he'll suffer both her and not-really-except-yes-Geralt at the same time while fucking sober.