His thumb traces a familiar path over the wood, idle and automatic.

"How would you turn them? Is it like preaching, or some other method?" He imagines something like the chantry, with its sisters and preachers trying to spread their words. More clearly, he remembers the stories of forced conversions told by his Keeper, stories that he's been thoroughly instructed in, to pass on to the next generations, to preserve what little of their past is left...

Finel shifts almost uncomfortably, frowning a little as he waits for her answer.