[ raising a brow and settling a hand covered in rings against a cocked hip, jaskier gives the ( seemingly ) young man a look over. describing a "friend" like that... well, jaskier is a poet. he knows things. ]

Is this gentleman a dear friend of yours? I can understand keeping one's hair in a certain fashion for the sake of sentimentality, after all, there's something poetic about a long-haired warrior, facing hordes of enemies while wind whips his hair about. Actually, that's pretty good- Give me a second here...

[ he digs in his pocket for his little notebook and charcoal, jotting a few things into it before tucking it away again. ]

Anyway... [ a beat. ] Is that... ice? Is there more?