"Forgiven," Myr replies, favoring Herian's direction with a warm smile. "We're none of us perfect, and you're a damned sight more mannerly than some I've known."

Himself included, if only because he's too inclined to let his curiosity get away from him. He steps back from the vhenadahl, tipping his head back toward the branches overhead. They do still get sun down here, at least, cold and damp as Kirkwall seems to him otherwise. "Besides, it's what we make of our flaws that matters in the Maker's sight, in the end--isn't it?"

He realizes he's maundering and laughs softly at himself for it. Break in on her prayers and pitch homilies at her; well done. "But I'm forgetting my own manners. I'm--" An instant's calculation of how much to offer, of what matters, "Myrobalan."