This isn't her job

Maricara spit when this templar, this woman of the cloth, brought up her precious Maker. It wasn’t that they didn’t worship the Maker in Rivain, they did, he just wasn’t the pretentious pig intent on control that he was here in the Free Marches. He didn’t clamp down on their power, their magic, their abilities, like this Maker and his Bride did. Her Maker, her Andraste, saw magic as a gift given to them to use to make the world better not as fetters to a chain for the Chantry to hold and yank them too and from. She was not to be tamed or domesticated. She was wild like the magic that ran through her veins. Keep my homeland within your lips and not without it.

Who reported me? One of the other mages? One of your templars who like to push us in dark corners in the dark of night to whispered threats and promises? Your source must be of the utmost trustworthiness to take them on their word so immediately.

There was nothing in her that could cause her to care anymore. Nothing in her that could make her want to cooperate. She was worth more alive? Then they could keep her alive, but she would give them nothing but her contempt and they could choke on it for as much as she cared.

She leaned back in the chair, trying to hide the way it hurt from the shredded nature of her back. Mari was already bleeding. It would be so easy to use that blood to her advantage. So easy to choke the woman in front of her on her own blood, but it would play into her hand and she wasn’t prepared to do that. Not yet.

Asleep in my bed.