[Jaskier is quite used to being immediately ignored or turned down -- look, even a master of romance cannot always win -- but when his new company responds, it is all the better. He matches her comment with a flattered laugh, sitting up a little straighter for her to take in whatever she'd like. It's all on display, after all. (In medieval terms, you know.)

Oh, and a glance at his lute, too. Perhaps a little later. In a quieter sort of place.]

A pitcher it is. I'd be delighted to share.

[He only glances away to call for the bartender, pulling his lute off from around his shoulders to prop it up by his legs. Ah, just in time to get hit with flowers. The small bump releases a pleasant smell. He takes that as a rather good omen for the night.] My lady, you may call me Jaskier. Absolutely at your service. [He can't so much bow as he often does, but he does dip his head.] And you? I must say, you have one of the most fascinating accents I've ever heard. I take it you are not from here, either?