[ She listens, following him with her eyes; her gaze flicks to the plants, thinking back on how they have looked in the past, how easily they grew, and how she's failed to notice them struggling recently. Or perhaps it's Jaskier she's failed to notice struggling, even if she could tell he seemed a bit off. They've both been, ever since Geralt--

But Geralt is fine now. (Mostly. Right?) And Jaskier is sleepless and melancholy, and keeps making comments about his own uselessness that are starting to get on her nerves.

Ciri reaches out to take the mug, lifting it to her face to inhale the steam now laced with the sharp warmth of the cinnamon. She takes a careful sip, just dipping her tongue against the liquid to check the temperature. ]

Jaskier...

[ Setting the cup back down, Ciri leans forward across the table on an elbow, meeting his gaze. Serious, but not unkind. ]

If you ask me, I think it's far more likely that your lack of rest and the burdens that you put upon yourself are more the culprit than your magic. I've told you before I am no sorceress, but I know a thing or two about the way chaos mixes poorly with unpleasant emotions.

[ Ciri reaches out across the table, resting her hand on Jaskier's arm (the scar beneath his sleeve). She gives his wrist a gentle squeeze. ]