"Excuse me," comes the somewhat affronted 'greeting' from 'someone' - perhaps not an unfamiliar someone, in the shape of her mouth and eyes unusually bare of the Orlesian masks, the way that she twitches her skirts with her fingers as she steps sharply and suddenly backwards to avoid the slosh of what is undoubtedly cheap Fereldan pig-swill. In this elf girl's handling of it she can find fault only in that it might spill on her, because Maker knows it hardly warrants being treated with any respect on its own dubious merits, and it smells appalling--

Her eyes narrow as her chin lifts and she studies said clumsy elf girl down the length of her aristocratic nose.

"I know you," she says, abruptly. "Don't I."