The Pot Calling the Kettle Black

Throughout Bethany's longwinded 'tirade,' quite the list of the chantry's past decade of history, Helena pictured the scale of Bethany's words beginning as a weak little stem but soon, they would grow far higher than her own. Prim little Bethany Hawke would eventually cast quite the shadow over the puffed up Helena Prieskorn. You see, the lady-Templar had only been left to imagine the Qunari affairs and that whole Dairsmuid massacre, and she had been quite certain each offending antagonist had gotten their just desserts. So at the start of what would become a proper speech, Helena side-eyed Bethany with a look of disgust, at first, that melted into one of simple-minded disbelief as detail after detail piled on with snippy, robust smacks. By the end of it, Helena's beliefs in the chantry's absolute goodness were on the stand, threatened, and her face had grown pink from listening to it all.

Your beliefs - How can you speak so treacherously? Then she whispered. How do they still let you hold your position when you speak so? I would turn around and take you back if this pursuit weren't such a priority. Surely, you were led astray or only imagined what you think you saw. Blood magic, Hawke, how rediculous that they didn't deserve what they got. What did you imagine they got? I have seen some transgressions of my rank, but none have equated to the sheer evil that possesses those of blood magic. The shriveled skin of its victims rung like a bell in her mind. What she had seen of the world herself, she clung to now.