The young poet did, in fact, take the bait and cock his head at Lythe a while, not unlike the way the mabari did when it heard something curious. He tried to imagine puffy tufts of hair sticking up around her ears and off her forehead, and even squinted a little -- what color was her hair? The stubble on her scalp looked vaguely red or brown... he couldn't quite tell in this light. Braids, then, and beads too, ones of stone. She had good, strong features for a dwarven woman. Rhocanth hypothesized that at one time she must have been thought attractive, even if she had never took note herself. He admired her eyes the most. Good and warm and trustworthy. Even without his own mother, he felt secure with her. So long as she stayed with him, maybe he could make it. For now, he would ignore the notion that such a state couldn't possibly be forever, considering that it would inevitably end when one of them died or, if they were blessed beyond blessing by the Ancestors, she would go back to her legion in the end.
For now, Rhocanth posed his hands on his knees and smiled mildly. He too had finally been able to swallow his sorrow down, and let it be replaced by a wish to make her proud. She clearly thought that what they were about to do was very important, and he would honor this request. For her, and for all those in Orzammar who suffered daily still. Maybe somewhere in the city there was another mother who held her child close at night and worried that one day he too might be taken for the front lines. Maybe... maybe it could be stopped. Somehow.
There was something somber still about his smile now, as he pushed himself up and held out his hand to help Lythe out of the leaves in turn. "The hour grows late, I think. I would not want Nivak to worry. I appreciate that you came to find me."