It tracks — the simmering tension he'd already heard about from Briala boiling over that year, after Felassan was gone. That's what simmering tension usually does. So he might as well believe her. The most outlandish part of her account remains that an elf, Dalish or otherwise, might have led an Inquisition in the world he last saw. Ameridan was one thing. They had the Dales then, Halamshiral and their Emerald Knights and alliances with the humans. It was a different world.

But he might as well believe her. Certain events sticks like a burr to his thoughts. He carries it with him even as his attention shifts to her very reasonable question.

"Felassan Virnehn," he says, and speaking his own tongue again, slowarrow, leads him back into the language as easily as thinking about the human calendar had led him out of it. "And you must promise me that no matter how friendly we may become or how immediately you might need my attention, you will never shorten that to Slow."

Imagine a childhood of lost footraces and stumbling answers to a hahren's questions. And only imagine it, because he was never exactly child.

Thoughtfully, so serious one might believe he doesn't hear himself except for the faintest glimmer in his eye that indicates he is doing it on purpose — "I'm not overly fond of Ass, either."