Gwenaëlle resists the impulse to repeat Rotunda of Gateways, which is — it isn't even an impressive name, it's just literally what it is, but it's beautiful. The liminal space between eluvians is not (not elf enough for that, and definitely not bitter about it), but this feels like what she thinks it should be like, if maybe a little too manicured. The topography changes, in this place, and why shouldn't it, when beautiful things like this exist?

Or sort of exist. Or existed in a dream.

She resists the urge to reach out for any of them, too, like some kind of country bumpkin come to be dazzled by the city, but after a moment,

“It seems so effortless,” elegant, in a way that automobiles do not strike her, “you must be...”

Her nose wrinkles, as she searches for words.

“Impatient, in Kirkwall.” Thedas.