She's been watching him since he walked into the tavern, from the corners of her eyes and in elliptical little glances.
Deja vu, they call it in Orlais. Or at least that’s what they call it when you don’t spend twenty-five years sucking down lyrium. Then they just call it inevitable. Is this how it starts?
She should know him, and she doesn't, and after a while she can't take it any more — slips through the little crowd (a clap on the shoulders, a returned laugh) to brush a hand against his arm, as though by accident. Wren offers the casual flash of a smile, tries to ignore the way that icewater pools through her guts.
"Did you want his attention?" A gesture to the barman. "We can order together."
before time travel stuff at some point
Deja vu, they call it in Orlais. Or at least that’s what they call it when you don’t spend twenty-five years sucking down lyrium. Then they just call it inevitable.
Is this how it starts?
She should know him, and she doesn't, and after a while she can't take it any more — slips through the little crowd (a clap on the shoulders, a returned laugh) to brush a hand against his arm, as though by accident. Wren offers the casual flash of a smile, tries to ignore the way that icewater pools through her guts.
"Did you want his attention?" A gesture to the barman. "We can order together."