The sound she makes is indistinct; she had rather never be anything but honest, where it's up to her. (If that isn't always as true as she believes it to be— she believes it, and that counts for something.) After a moment, absently tapping her fingers against recently refinished wood,

“Five years ago I'd never lifted a weapon,” she offers, in further honesty. “Ten years ago I had never left Orlais. I don't know if I'll recognise who I'll become, if I get another fifteen.”

Her shrug is elegant, better suited to the courts and drawing rooms she'd once been expected only to haunt, “What are we meant to do, except get on with what's in front of us? I think it's mad, anything else.”