This isn't, somehow, the most insane conversation he's had about the subject. I'm not a mage, insists Rifter upon Rifter -

It does them little good, in the end. The Chantry is disinterested in splitting hairs.

"It's interesting," A beat. He knows better than to argue solidarity, even so - "That you describe magic both as choice and as not. Another man might ask which you truly believe."

Of her own skills, before his own. He meets her eyes, brief, and turns back. The staff is little more than a burnt branch. He likes it in reach.

"But a wet wolf is still damp."