[Leaning forward, scraps of parchment rustling under her arms as she rests her chin on her hands, she closes her eyes. Casts her mind back; werewolves, ghosts that sobbed and then shrieked in elven, a dragon, the ritual pool. More she perhaps forgets but it has been ten years and there had been a job to do after all, that whole business with Zathrian to be getting on with.] Much of what the Chantry and Circle knows had to have come from somewhere, tis far from likely they shall ever admit to a source; tell me, Pel, would you be at all surprised if the phylacteries too had come from the elves, something taken and used for whatever purpose they saw fit?

[But that is a distraction from the true purpose of this discussion, so she steers it back.]

Before we come to the memory, why place it upon the altar?