The Kirkwall alienage and its vhenadahl seem no more familiar to Vandelin now than they did when he first ventured in here, no matter how he's been hoping they might. Even his recollections of Hasmal's alienage are hazy. He doesn't remember quite how the streets were laid out, or what any of his neighbors' faces looked like. How can he expect, after 25 years in the Circle, to be able to feel at home in a strange alienage on the opposite side of the country from his birthplace?
But Herian's prayer stirs memory in a way he'd rather it hadn't. Of course her voice is different, her accent is different, but the Chant is the Chant, and it has the same cadence here as it did when his father preached in front of Hasmal's vhenadahl to crowds of hungry faithful.
It's galling enough to hear it from an elf, from a man who had no choice but to use the dilapidated alienage courtyard as his pulpit because no Chantry would have let him through the door. It makes Vandelin angry enough to hear his people singing the prayers of the occupiers who had slashed them from the record and burned all the evidence, but from a human, it feels mocking. His face is impassive as the woman looks up at him.
A
But Herian's prayer stirs memory in a way he'd rather it hadn't. Of course her voice is different, her accent is different, but the Chant is the Chant, and it has the same cadence here as it did when his father preached in front of Hasmal's vhenadahl to crowds of hungry faithful.
It's galling enough to hear it from an elf, from a man who had no choice but to use the dilapidated alienage courtyard as his pulpit because no Chantry would have let him through the door. It makes Vandelin angry enough to hear his people singing the prayers of the occupiers who had slashed them from the record and burned all the evidence, but from a human, it feels mocking. His face is impassive as the woman looks up at him.
"I don't think anyone here has need of you."