Varric actually lets out a snort and a laugh at that, but he doesn't seem even remotely put out. It's adorable, how she keeps falling back into the eye-contact, self-assured voice, tentative glances bard training of hers. She's working off a set series of steps and Varric can see through it as plain as day. It was cute that she was trying to dupe a writer with a script and he found himself all the more flattered for the attempt.

"You are priceless, kid," Varric compliments and pats her on the cheek. Perhaps the wrong message. Shit. He grimaces at himself after a beat and, in a strange move, tugs off his fine lambskin gloves. His hands are normal, really hand-like, and have a few callouses and ink-stains, but they are a lot warmer than his gloves when he takes her hand again.

"What kind of crazy asshole would I be if I turned down a cute Dalish woman who was flirting with me over wine? You do know I have a thing for ladies that can kill me, right? And you definitely qualify."

He leans back in his chair, his expression speculative, and quirks a brow at Beleth.

"But I'm also shit at this sort of thing. I can't even write romance. Are you sure you want to go there with me? You can seriously do better."