His expression goes a little far away. It's difficult to connect to that time in his life. He's so far removed from that idealistic boy, so jaded now, but if he lets that color his answer, then Dorian won't have the truth of it. It's easier to talk about with his eyes closed. He does so and relaxes down just a bit further.

"In Honnleath templars were seen as protecting people. Everyone, mages and those without power. Soldiers...well, soldiers served the king, and we didn't have much in the way of a town guard. They were a bit of a joke, old men with pot bellies and ill-fitting armor who marched around and thumped children on the backs of their hands for pilfering in farmer's stalls in the open market."

He cracks an eye open to look at him. "But the templars were grand. Disciplined, drilling, the arm of the benevolent Chantry, and before you laugh, try to understand my village was small and had an uncertain and frightening history with our one local mage of note, the unfortunate owner of the golem. Heady stuff for a young boy more quiet and introverted than his outgoing siblings. Our house was chaos. Happy chaos, but chaos. I wanted more, and I...perhaps naively believed that good intentions and hard work would be enough." A mouthful, he realizes, likely more than the man truly wants to hear. There's no taking it back now. He closes his eyes again.

"I imagine it's different when you're a mage. It...happens to you, not the other way around."