( Fear and greed are certainly traits she has encountered more often than she would care to. She sung for them, found her way into their beds and slit their throats, and that tended to be a quiet evening. She was Marjolaine's pretty thing, and even after all these years, the traces of Marjolaine linger. Much she is as peace with; other things are closer to hooks under her skin, just close enough to the surface that they might pierce should she move too fast, stretch to far. It is a melodramatic comparison, true, but a bard should have some talent in spinning drama into their tales.

She lingers, arms crossed, gaze trained forward and strictly away from Zevran until he rounds on her. She almost protests the comment about the Maker's absence, that very lack of belief in absence is what brought her to Jonas' side. It is not the real point, here, and so she stays her tongue. And perhaps because it is easier, and because she feels like she should attempt to listen on the rare occasions when Zevran links together so many words and so seriously. On any other day, she might suggest a toast, perhaps commissioning a painting. )

I do not know if it is my worth in question. ( slow, quiet. ) I wonder if it is my path. Marjolaine told me I was like her, many years ago. She said so repeatedly, in fact.

( and she was not deaf to the whispers and murmurs, to Morrigan's barbs, an ironic self-righteousness at finding the Sister was not so righteous as she seemed. ) Perhaps she was right. My faith and my resolve, they... have found different inspirations. I wonder if this has been a simple matter of delusion. Smoke and mirrors, the sort that both of us should have seen through long ago.

( Her hand remains in his, and she watches him; fond, careful. ) I know my worth. My purpose? That is another matter.