Jaskier leans in with an inquisitive rise to his brows. "Oh? Are you trying to be encouraging? Why, Estinien! I do appreciate it." It could be mistaken as sarcasm, but in this instance, with the dragon knight, it is not. Any time someone attempts to look at Jaskier's craft as something more than minstrel performances and elementary rhymes...
It's appreciated, that's all.
He pats his knee. "And your words say what you believe. That's all one can ask for, really." Actually, for a knight, he does find Estinien rather good with them. It's not that he's personable or particularly warm -- it is undeniable that Estinien is neither -- but that he speaks his heart firmly, and diligently, and without remorse. It's worthy of note.
Jaskier leans back again, crossing his legs. Long silences and companions who carefully pick their words have never bothered him. And with a friend, he has especial fondness which offers the strength to be more patient.
He tilts his head. The shift in topic is abrupt. Not unwelcome, though, nor unnatural. Jaskier is, as one might say, a recent stan of dragons. With the tilt of his head comes a wideness to his eyes. "What! Really? How has Himeka never told me this?" And even surprisingly to himself, he flushes, grabbing over his heart.
"Oh, gods. And to think I played for those dragons. I mean -- neither of us knew who we were, of course, and I hardly recalled much of dragons --"
And yet, the dragons had praised him. Or was that Himeka, through them? He's no longer sure. Moglad is so much himself that Jaskier is unsure how far the creations of one can detach from their creator. He clears his throat. The whole thing is only slightly embarrassing, and Estinien needn't know of the shenanigans he sought while his head was empty of memory. "Do you know any of them? Perhaps you can hum a few lines of history?"
no subject
It's appreciated, that's all.
He pats his knee. "And your words say what you believe. That's all one can ask for, really." Actually, for a knight, he does find Estinien rather good with them. It's not that he's personable or particularly warm -- it is undeniable that Estinien is neither -- but that he speaks his heart firmly, and diligently, and without remorse. It's worthy of note.
Jaskier leans back again, crossing his legs. Long silences and companions who carefully pick their words have never bothered him. And with a friend, he has especial fondness which offers the strength to be more patient.
He tilts his head. The shift in topic is abrupt. Not unwelcome, though, nor unnatural. Jaskier is, as one might say, a recent stan of dragons. With the tilt of his head comes a wideness to his eyes. "What! Really? How has Himeka never told me this?" And even surprisingly to himself, he flushes, grabbing over his heart.
"Oh, gods. And to think I played for those dragons. I mean -- neither of us knew who we were, of course, and I hardly recalled much of dragons --"
And yet, the dragons had praised him. Or was that Himeka, through them? He's no longer sure. Moglad is so much himself that Jaskier is unsure how far the creations of one can detach from their creator. He clears his throat. The whole thing is only slightly embarrassing, and Estinien needn't know of the shenanigans he sought while his head was empty of memory. "Do you know any of them? Perhaps you can hum a few lines of history?"