He takes it for a yes, smoothes his shoulders into something a little more relaxed — and at once more puffed up. His movements unwind, begin to take up more of the free space as he begins picking through the dresser.

"Orlesian. Would he even know?" An idle joke, a peace offering; she sounds Ferelden. Hating Orlais may be the one thing Ferelden and Nevarra actually have in common. "No, if it were food poisoning, we'd all be down with it."

He's still watching her from the corner of his eyes, does a silent mental calculus of whether she's really committed to the act... or perhaps not actually looking to shove the nearest valuables up her sleeves.

"Flasks, bottles; something alcoholic he might have kept back for his own." A gesture to the closet, an eyebrow lifted expectantly. Are you helping, then? "Or bath oils. Salts, maybe."

He'd expect different signs of a contact poison, but Maker knows what a drunk will try to shove in his mouth.