There's no particular reassurance on Kostos' face. It doesn't occur to him that it may be necessary, but if it did he probably wouldn't bother. Not with a smile or a compliment. He's already here, isn't he, and he isn't leaving over scars or weathered skin, and maybe there's indirect reassurance in how long it takes him to look up from the region of Loghain's navel, the skin shifting with his breathing in the lamplight, and to notice his face.

He raises his eyebrows in answer, or maybe just in answering challenge, albeit without any idea what they're challenging one another over. He shrugs out of his ornate overshirt and shucks out of the one beneath it—he has his own scars, sparse and neatly healed but unmistakably signs of swords and arrows, or, in the evenly spaced spots over his ribs, a spiked club—and he puts his hand on Loghain's stomach, fingers first flat and then curling to rake down and catch the waist of his trousers.

As an afterthought, he glances at the lantern. They might be casting a shadow on the tent walls. But he doesn't have a reputation to ruin—not with this—and he assumes Loghain is aware. It seems like the sort of thing a renowned general would be aware of. He doesn't say anything about it, just sets to efficient one-handed work on whatever belt or laces might be in the way of removing the man's pants entirely.