[ jerry carefully sidesteps the art guy near on weeping over the splattered paint, pausing to crouch down and hold the man's face between his paint splattered hands with a soulful gaze, as if he's imparting actual wisdom rather than regurgitating PBS specials. ]

Hey, man. We don't make mistakes, just happy accidents.

[ he pats his cheeks, drags a hand weirdly over his face from forehead to chin, like giving him some kind of freaky druidic blessing, before slapping his cheeks again with a quick couple pats, and giving a cheerful boop to his nose. Then, Jerry dashes off after Jack. Somehow, the weird art guy is left with what could be an elegantly abstract butterfly painted across his face. ]

Shit, you know I'm bad at ye olde fantasy bullshit voices. [ he starts up once he's in pace with jack. give him samurai or scarface or dwayne the rock johnson and he's got that shit on lock, but the olde high elves and knights and ladies in waiting is out of his wheel house. ] I'll work on it. For you.

[ he clears his throat, pounds a fist against his chest, and takes a stab. ]

What of yon rock fuckery? Doth this magic... earth boner need harshing? [ jerry flings his head back and puffs out a petulant groan. ] See? Fucking garbage.