[Jaskier maintains he dropped it, and also maintains that there is not a single drink in his entire life that has ever exploded upon him in a matter very similar to Ciri's magic. Though instead of near-death and trauma, it merely coats himself, his wonderful embroidered coat, and his companion in a mist of fine, sticky, stinking drink.

He squeezes it from is own hair, wiping his face. He sniffs, and it gets up his nose. Somehow it's even worse up his nose, bubbling like -- like who the fuck knows.

Jaskier sneezes.]

Yes. Yes, I think I understand that is not something to do with your cursed modern beverages.

[Thank you, Julie. He holds out a hand.]

A moment. I can fix this.

[He does. The Horizon is brilliant, one's limitation only being what they can think of. And what he thinks of is... the two of them, in the same clothes, except they're dry and clean.

There. It works for himself, at least. His hair is dry again, the little droplets of potion floating off of him like baubles, before disappearing altogether.

He's dry, clean, and yet still feels vaguely sticky.

He picks up the bottle, flicking grass off the top, and takes a sip. Coughing immediately after as this sour... sweet... he's pretty sure this is some sort of acid, and it's killing him, actually. After he chokes for a second, he clears his throat.] I kindly request you keep this moment us.