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The bard and the witcher sat in silence, the only sounds were those of the forest around them.
“Jaskier?” The witcher spoke.
“Yes?” He responded, absent-mindedly plucking his lute.
“How old are you?” He knew the bard was young, but just how young was he?
“Eighteen, I turn nineteen in a few months, why?”
“What year were you born?”
“1222, again, why?”
Geralt only chuckled, “You're a plague baby.”
“W-what does that even mean?!” Jaskier exclaimed.
“Your parents had to entertain themselves during the plague somehow.”
“Oh gods, Geralt! I didn't need that image of my parents in my head!”