If there is a single thing that might have surprised her more, she cannot think of it. Herian just stares for a moment, dumbfounded, before she finds her voice. "An aunt of my father's, I believe. I cannot remember the exact nature," and her voice sounds a little distant, from confusion more than coldness, now. "When the Starkhaven alienage burned I was sent to the Spire, to Orlais, because there were relatives of mine already inhabiting the Circles of the Free Marches. I— I hardly imagined that—"

That— what? That people would know them? Speak of them? Aunt Cerys was a woman barely known even to her relatives, taken to the alienage when she was very young, and understood as little as a legend almost more than as a person.

"You know her?" Knew her? Hasmal had suffered as much as any Circle, and perhaps more. There is an earnestness in her voice rarely heard by those who have not known her considerably longer than Myrobalan has.

Almost any other thread of their conversation is forgotten, for the time being. She will return to them later, consider them, and be grateful, more than likely. Right now, alas, her attention has been effectively stolen to one focus, one concern.