The Gallows is a big island fortress until it is not a big island fortress. It becomes very obvious very quickly when, say, one's personal habits mirror someone else's entirely by coincidence. Laurentius can no more be blind to the man who catalogues and manages the library for long hours of the day than Mobius can be to the gloomy man who had taken to lurking there for similarly protracted lengths of time, working methodically through Riftwatch's collection of southern Chantry texts as if he too is making a sort of catalog—a mental one of the titles and contents and arguments therein, copying great swathes of essays down and then secreting those copied pages away to whatever rabbit hole of a room he occupies elsewhere on the island. And again, in the Gallows chapel—the dour looking Tevinter man leaving as Mobius arrives, or vice versa.

And, funnily enough (though the circumstances are less so than the serendipity), here in Kirkwall's Lowtown markets:

It's unclear where the problem began. What is instantly obvious is that the tall man with two books tucked protectively against his chest, who is so, so painfully Tevene in both the cut of his clothes and his accent as he attempts to patiently insist, "—Just allow me to pay for them and I'll be on my way," to the used book dealer

is outnumbered.

Neighboring vendors have started to look toward the argument as the book dealer's voice rises in reply. Heads are turning slowly round. A trio of young men loitering between stalls have sniffed the altercation, and cocked their attention in its direction like coursing dogs bending toward the scent of a rabbit.