Her expression is far more controlled than what it once was. Oh, Herian in the Spire was defiant and in that defiance came a measure of haughty evenness, more for the sake of being headstrong than because she thought it seemly. Sometimes it was purely because someone thought she couldn't. Herian in the Aftermath held control close to her chest, treasured it as she controlled little else. The Enchanter had been right - without control her powers would never truly be her own, but something she was at war with.

"And is this better? We need them back. If there hadn't been-- apostates and Kirkwall, the Spire would never have fallen." The tremour and spasm in her hands stretches up to her wrists, threatens to claim her forearms, and she clenched her fingers into the cloth of her robes. "Dishonour nearly killed us. Not... not the Circles."

Herian shakes her head. "You are a Spirit Healer. I can think of few vocations less selfish." The Enchanter is wilfully misunderstanding her.