( gwenaëlle makes a little huh sound, more thoughtful than the dismissive that she might have been if her guard weren't already lowered, at least a bit. radiant sounds like a nice sort of soul type to be told you have; suffocated, not so much. it snags on something in her mind, a thought only half-formed, and she keeps turning it over, and— )

Harmless traditions, ( she echoes. thinks, unwillingly, of the dalish. of everything they have learned about ancient elvhenan. about her fucking eye.

she flicks ash into the tray, and settles on, )

I've always been interested, ( after a moment, ) in the stories that a people tell about themselves. They're revealing, traditions.

( beyond just what they mean. but including that. even if there's truth to it. especially if there's truth to it. )