The wizard's name, it turned out, was Barentholemew, and he had graciously conceded to be called Barry by his charming bardic company for the evening. Jaskier was planning to see how drunk he had to get him before he would answer to "mew-mew," and based on the way the older man's eyes were lingering on the bard's legs Jaskier bet himself it wouldn't be more than a half dozen drinks. Barry appeared to be on the less fortunate end of middle age, with greased back hair and a pronounced widow's peak. He might have been handsome, if he hadn't had the unmistakable air of entitlement that plagued mages and nobles alike the continent over. Or, thought Jaskier, if he had taken the slightest care in dressing. As opposed to pulling on sulfurous yellow stripes under his drab gray 'ooo look at me I'm so stealthy' cloak. Either way.
Jaskier had shrugged back on the various accouterments of his teal and gold silk ensemble and approached the Wizard as soon as he was done with his second encore. The bard had barely had time to introduce himself and bat his eyes at the "tall, dark, and handsome stranger here in my audience," before he was accosted with the usual small minded anti-witcher mage-lecture. Jaskier very nearly had it memorized by now, and could probably have sung harmony to all the "you know not of what you sing, bard," and "those beasts are not as they might lead you to believe," drivel.
Oxenfurt didn't hand out Masterships of the Seven Liberal Arts all willy-nilly, though, and Jaskier considered himself extremely clever when he bothered about it. Instead of quoting along with or interrupting the incredibly boring "I don't want to think these people are people because it would be inconvenient for me personally, and I'd have to use my brain for once in my life, and might have to cop to being wrong" speech Jaskier acted aghast at the supposition. He professed to never having considered that the witchers themselves might attempt to mislead him. After all, he was just a humble bard. If such an august personage as a Sorcerer, of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, believed he was in the wrong, well, surely he must hear more.
Anyone else who had spouted off half so much about Geralt and his brothers would have had Jaskier's fist in his nose faster than the bard could spit dirty limericks about their mother. Sadly, there was fuckery afoot (and not the fun kind), and as his witcher was absent Jaskier had to try his hand at foiling it. If Geralt was in danger Jaskier would do a great deal more than flatter some shitheel with bad breath and wandering eyes to help him. Also, it was quite likely Barry, being a mage, could set him on fire, or turn him into a newt or some such. A lesser consideration, really; he'd make a very handsome newt, and Geralt would find him and turn him back directly. Perhaps with true love's kiss? Hmm. He'd have to consider later the pros and cons of potential newt-dom.
By the time the tavern was closing, nearly an hour later, Barry was still pontificating in an attempt to educate his oh-so-willing audience. Not for nothing had the bard lately gotten a reputation for being the worst debate opponent in the whole of the university. Shani might tear her opponents to pieces, but Jaskier would talk them around in circles so sweetly they never noticed that they'd agreed that all their own points were bullshit until it was two hours later and they'd already bought him a drink to toast to their victory.
Barry had, naturally, had no other option but to take the bard up to his wizard tower to continue their fascinating (and totally one-sided) conversation. More than a little tipsy, he was thoroughly convinced that Jaskier had seen the light on witchers, and was ready to learn on a number of other lovely topics. Jaskier, for his part, always looked forward to providing a useful first-hand education to anyone who though non-humans should be hunted down like animals.
Note: this Jaskier is taking more than few cues from the Dandelion of the books and games, so a little different from Show!Jaskier