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Iris still doesn’t understand why they gave her this position. The Wardens may recruit all sorts, but she is still an elven mage, and this is a public facing role, with the Arlship of Amaranthine having passed into Warden hands. She thinks, then, of the dead girl who left this position to her. Aaren Tabris, her name was. Twenty when she died. They named her Hero of Fereldan for it, but that does little good for a dead girl and the mourners Iris is sure she has left behind. At times like this, Iris feels every one of her years and then some. Wardens die young, but not that young. Sometimes, yes, but not with such regularity it is not horrifying. That girl is a martyr now, and they will love her all the more for it. A dead girl cannot protest, cannot make her opinions now. The public can view her however they like. It is not as though Iris knew her, either. Perhaps she is simply projecting. Nonetheless, she pities her.
She has power, here, and she can admit to herself that it comforts her, a little. She may be stuck in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people yet again, but unlike the instances of such years ago, she is not some powerless young thing. She talks, and people listen. The people don’t by any means all like her, but enough do. Enough respect her for her to make do. She’s worked with worse odds. She got here somehow, after all, when once she was a scared new Warden so unused to being outdoors. Now she has authority. She likes that feeling a little more than she would prefer.