He breathes out through his nose, slow and measured. Listening to the bright roll of Hawke's stream-of-consciousness is settling, in its own way; it calms an instinctive urge to defend himself, from— Varric? Justice? Himself? He isn't sure.

The corner of his mouth pulls taut on one side; it might have been a smile, under different circumstances.

"That's true." Always has been. He could never quite get warm enough in Kinloch Hold, and Amaranthine was even worse, with its damp, stifling winter. Kirkwall should have been an improvement. (It wasn't.) "I also have some vested interest in keeping my head where it is."

Two points against already, then. Good. Fine. That makes it an easy decision. It would be a risky, foolish leap at smoke, too dangerous for the both of them if there's no hope of payoff. Whatever that payoff might be.

His head aches.

"He's a dwarf." Hawke isn't even arguing one way or the other. Anders is arguing with himself and he knows it. "He might not even have properly understood what he was seeing, whatever it was. Maybe she was a healer. Or it was a wisp, or— anything."

He knows better, though. More importantly, he knows that Varric knows better. Varric wouldn't send them this without verifying it through every source he could think of, and would have shut it down at the first whiff of deception. There's no leg to stand on.