Vandelin knows rhetoric when he hears it. He has to admire all those subtle little jabs, dog whistles enough to put a Fereldan to shame. So much for the grand freedom fighters, trooping off like mindless little toys to crush the Andrastians like they once ground our people beneath their holy boots; here comes the new boss, same as the old; your cause is no less a religion than our prayer.

He gazes down at the intricate folds of paper in Myrobalan's hands, watching the holy symbol take shape from the fiery declaration of antitheism, and lets out a little huff of laughter. Not so subtle after all, perhaps.

"You think I'd resort to flyers on doors?" he says, with a faint note of genuine amusement--it could have been a joke between them, in happier times. You know me well. He considers it--has considered it, but makes a show of it now, as if willing to engage on Myr's terms.

"The atrocities of the templars in places like Kirkwall and Tantervale would speak for themselves if only we all had a way to hear them. But we don't, do we? When the only news we're ever permitted is what we get from those with the freedom to leave the tower, well." He spreads his hands wide. "You can't give a regime enough rope to hang itself if they're allowed to hide the rope. We need to drag everything into the daylight. There's only so much we enchanters can do at once when they deign to let us out."