"I am, indeed, an Imperial citizen," Vergil confesses, "and yes- men make up all the upper echelons of the Northern Chantry. Our Divine is as reliably male as the South's is female. It's one expression of the schism, though it's not precisely what the schism itself is about.
"The schism is- well, it's really about what this whole civil war is about. The Southern Chantry has a harsh attitude towards magic and its practitioners. The Northern Chantry has a much more liberal interpretation of the words of Andraste regarding mages and their place in the world. The idea of a mage being in the Southern Chantry is unthinkable. In the North, it's common practice. There are other sticking points, many of them too minor to mention, but the core- well. There is a reason I've come when I have. I feel this is the ideal opportunity to demonstrate what the North has to offer, seeing how badly the South has fouled things up."
Once again, Vergil refrains from assailing her faith when she brings it up. He feels the true believer's twinge, the displeasure at knowing someone otherwise admirable has wandered from the path of truth. But in this circumstance, can that even apply, could it even be expected of her? Has the Chant of Light simply not become manifest in her homeland, or is her world made differently on a more fundamental level? Could there be more than one Maker, if there is more than one world?
Quickly his thoughts are swerving towards heresy, and while the existence of rifters might well demand serious cosmological considerations, now is neither the time nor to place. One doesn't tend to charm free-spirited young women by way of impromptu conversion attempts, let alone dry theosophical inquiries.
So Vergil just smiles. "Who else is accompanying you, if I might ask? I do tend to agree that there is safety in numbers." He taps his chin, that pantomime of rumination. "Though I suspect if we wore masks they would make us seem more foreign than not. We might wear masks, but I don't doubt we'd wear the wrong ones for the wrong occasion, or otherwise give away our misunderstanding of that great Game they're always going on about.
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"The schism is- well, it's really about what this whole civil war is about. The Southern Chantry has a harsh attitude towards magic and its practitioners. The Northern Chantry has a much more liberal interpretation of the words of Andraste regarding mages and their place in the world. The idea of a mage being in the Southern Chantry is unthinkable. In the North, it's common practice. There are other sticking points, many of them too minor to mention, but the core- well. There is a reason I've come when I have. I feel this is the ideal opportunity to demonstrate what the North has to offer, seeing how badly the South has fouled things up."
Once again, Vergil refrains from assailing her faith when she brings it up. He feels the true believer's twinge, the displeasure at knowing someone otherwise admirable has wandered from the path of truth. But in this circumstance, can that even apply, could it even be expected of her? Has the Chant of Light simply not become manifest in her homeland, or is her world made differently on a more fundamental level? Could there be more than one Maker, if there is more than one world?
Quickly his thoughts are swerving towards heresy, and while the existence of rifters might well demand serious cosmological considerations, now is neither the time nor to place. One doesn't tend to charm free-spirited young women by way of impromptu conversion attempts, let alone dry theosophical inquiries.
So Vergil just smiles. "Who else is accompanying you, if I might ask? I do tend to agree that there is safety in numbers." He taps his chin, that pantomime of rumination. "Though I suspect if we wore masks they would make us seem more foreign than not. We might wear masks, but I don't doubt we'd wear the wrong ones for the wrong occasion, or otherwise give away our misunderstanding of that great Game they're always going on about.
"Anyways, it would be a crime to hide your face."