an alien a day keeps the sorceror's away

Creator. Singular. Rylee contemplated the thought behind that. She'd never heard a dalish elf refer to Creator in the singular like that. Always plural. Always Creators. Interesting. Was this woman, perhaps, from some more isolated group that practiced differently? Rylee, herself, had never grown up with the notion of the Creators. As an elf born in the city, she'd had the Maker shoved down her throat at a young age. She wondered if this was, perhaps, some mashup between the two.

Rylee stirred from her thoughts at the question about hurting the man. He was a bad man, and there are a lot of bad men in places like this, she explained. The only not bad shems Rylee had ever met could be counted on one hand. And they were typically mages. People who understood the elves more than others. People who were also all but enslaved because of how they were born.

Handler? Interesting. Well, they picked a beautiful name, Rylee offered, a charming smile on her lips. She decided to gloss over the handler part for now.

You're... what? Rylee blinked a few times trying to process. Are you from Tevinter? she asked, a hint of concern touching her tone.