He doesn't even blink, simply keeps smiling, until her hand subsides and her words are what linger between them. Then, he might lay a hand over hers, should it remain on his person. He doesn't hunt after touch, either way.

"The stage, my dear lady, is yours." Mercenary, to profit from any that might still survive and not have sold themselves into the undead lord brothers of Unhalad's services. What in it is just, ah? Except that war always costs, and Taravast is not so secure as all that. Ducking his head a touch, what would be boyish charm if one chooses to see it as such, smiling at her with a touch of sympathy.

For who, or what, is hard to say.

"May it be a stunningly subtle performance."