And, as I recall, you thought it rather presumptuous of me. Arrogant, even. And when history is penned by those who hold victories, or who simply pen a tale when another does not... I have no interest in lies. ( It comes out too harsh and too bitter. It feels as though everything is poisoned, some days, as if some slow and insidious toxin has been eating through the tissue and bone of their world from the first. In those days she was too naive to see it. ) "History" was defined so often by those who reviled mages, who saw elven culture burned to the ground, as best they could.

( No. She is not sure she wants to read those history books, any more, nor their more romantic variations. Not if she holds a shred of integrity, and not when there is so much work to be done.
Her tone has more lightness than the rest of her, tension pulled tight across her back, when she replies. ) Of course. Another Orlesian quality, no? As is my plan to have a series of excellent locks to prevent you from getting me.

( As if locks could truly befuddle a mage. Then again, it was she or Zevran who picked locks, and never Morrigan and Wynne who blasted them with magic... perhaps for the sake of their egos. Who really knows?

Quick, this is very quickly carrying the risk of involving an emotion, or something. Leliana looks up to the tower, and see the flickering light of a lit candle. One of the scouts has returned, then. Thank the Maker. )

I am afraid I must go, Morrigan. Duty calls. ( She moves swiftly and silently, too much a habit to allow herself any other kind of motion, but stops herself before she has drawn too far away, even if she does not wait for goodbyes. ) Keep me abreast of developments with your project.

( It is not quite it was good to see you, but perhaps it carries the tone of it. Perhaps. )