Varric's always ahead of the game. He has to see all the angles, be prepared for every contingency, so he can write the story's end before the characters even finish out their parts. Compared to that, chess is downright soothing.
Tonight, Isabela captures his queen in twelve moves, a personal low. Isabela's got a knack for chess but no drive; she prefers the fast flicking of cards. She plays for Varric, and Varric's busy composing stories in his mind for a different woman.
She cocks an eyebrow at the queen. "You're losing your step, Tethras,"
Varric leans back in his seat. "Or maybe, Rivaini, I'm lulling you into a false sense of complacency."
Isabela barks with laughter. "There's more sport in winning trinkets from Merrill and slipping them back under her pillow again than there is in playing you tonight." She stands up and tips Varric's king over, one of her jewels gleaming the exact shade of the Sea of Amaranthine at sunrise - and Varric finally has a worthy metaphor for her eyes. "I'll leave you with your...thoughts," she finishes, her smile sly.
Varric's alone with his ale, the light of a fire, and his chessboard. Looking down again, he mentally replays the game, searching for the move that brought him low.
Ah, there. Seventh move. If he'd sacrificed his white rook, the feint would've drawn off her assault.
Varric picks up the piece and kisses it.
Tonight he's not writing a maudlin tale; he's living one.
