I actually read that. And I have known a Baronness or seven to want a man to paint himself with kat— kad— [ He means kaddis. ] —that dog paint, and carry her around over his shoulder. Not me, of course.

[ He holds an arm up, forearm dangling in the floppy opposite of a bicep flex. There is a bicep in there, of course, but the point remains: his hulking brute impression is pretty unconvincing. ]

But, mm. I do not think Orlesians think about it as much as Fereldans. The privilege, ouais, of having it happen on the other side of the mountains. Most people never saw the blood. Our fathers might have had their wounds, when they returned, but they did not tell their children they earned them burning fields and hurting women. So a generation passes, and it is just something that happened a long time ago, far away. I suppose that is true of most things.

[ But—and he means it, openly searching for any twitch or breath that might give away a dishonest answer— ]

Does it bother you, when I make fun of Ferelden?