[Jaskier doesn't mirror the gesture; even when he's listening, his fingers drum over his legs, or shift to grip the chair and then move back to his lap. He isn't one to sit still, even though he isn't the least bit nervous. Quite the opposite; he's beginning to see why Geralt wasn't entirely bothered by Sam's presence. It's rather easy to be around.]

One could say that's his own unique... thing.

[The phrase doesn't flow naturally from him, but he understands what Sam's getting at.] It's where I came up with his moniker, the White Wolf. I mean, it may seem rather obvious, but it caught on very well. [He emphasizes this, as if to emphasize the very important work of a bard.

Jaskier purses his lips. He supposes it isn't... entirely Sam's fault.] Hmph. I don't know what that is. I have played at festivals and faires, back in my younger days. [Jaskier's hands move through the air as he explains:] I'm a poet. Highly-educated and skilled at it, thank you. And I'm Geralt's... barker. I told ballads of his exploits across the years. It's the only reason he's made a name for himself. Not that he isn't quite good at what he does, but he couldn't sell an ear of corn to a starving king if he tried.

[Of course he didn't come here to talk about himself, but... he's Jaskier. He takes every opportunity.]