[ she pulls a face at the fullness of her glass, and doubts that aedan will pay it any attention. taking care not to spill it all over herself, she lifts it back to her lips to drink as much as she can, as quickly as she can, before her hands betray her and spill it over her fine clothing. and it is fine clothing. lliorel has never known a mage's coat to be made so well, except for perhaps amongst some of the better off clans, the ones that made the best deals with orlesian cloth merchants. she has thicker skin than she would give herself credit for, in any case — her dignity would withstand the knock of a trashy novel, whether she knew about it or not.

just about, in any case.

though lliorel is herself excellent at remembering both names and faces (at times somewhat alarming to inquisition soldiers that she addresses by name, who have never even happened to see her own face to know it is the inquisitor), she forgets that people like aedan have not been spending all their time learning the ins and outs of the inquisition's constantly expanding roster. she blinks once, daftly, before remembering this very fact. ]

Varric Tethras — the infamous hand behind The Tale of the Champion and Hard in Hightown, to name just a few. The few that I remember, anyway, he has something of an extensive bibliography to his name. He's amongst our company, here.

[ and very comforting company he makes; he is by far the person lliorel is least worried to speak to about whatever's going on in her head, as much as she genuinely trusts in her various companions already. ]