There was little point in dissembling, as Hawke wore his staff slung over his back as usual, where it was convenient to access. He stood still while Surana circled around him, somewhat bemused by his analysis. If the templars in Kirkwall had paid half as much attention to him, doubtless he would have been imprisoned years ago for the grievous sin of being born with magic. But they never had, and he had never been. Not that he was complaining.

"I don't think that's a very fair assessment at all. I could be any number of things besides an apostate. A scholar, for example, or a well-educated noble, or even an initiate who was caught in a compromising position with a pretty Sister and was expelled for wanton impropriety and complete and utter disregard for Chantry rules, but whose loyal hound would not be separated from his side--" Here Champion interrupted him with a vaguely disgusted noise somewhere between a whine and a growl, and he grinned and smooshed the loose skin of the dog's eyebrows downward, briefly causing his eyes to close. "My father was very good at eluding templars and keeping the family together. So in that, I suppose, yes, you could say I was lucky."

Now it was his turn to eye Surana speculatively. "So you're a Grey Warden, then?"