The Pot Calling the Kettle Black

Helena swung up onto her mount, glowering at Bethany. The mage's motherly appeal ruffled her further, and she doubted the other mage's calmness would last through their spat. Ser Prieskorn had long ago pegged Bethany as an idealist and romantic, groomed by Starkhaven's stability and peace, and she would not allow herself to be affected by such naivette.

Oh, don't patronize me now; I know when I've right to be cautious, when to use my magic, when to end another before they can do more harm, she growled. You aren't even aware of how spoiled and sheltered you've been here. Maybe in time and with experience and mistakes, you will learn the truth of people, of *them*. But I haven't the time for that. There will be no mistakes with me.

Helena pushed her steed into a brisk trot, heading through town to drop a word in with her daughter about her absence for a time.

Have you, Hawke, ever left Starkhaven? Have you even heard of what has become of the Antivan circles? she threw behind her.