The strangest sort, as it seems to find amusement in muddling with time.

[ Brennan sighs in aggravation, pinching his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose for a moment. Her request is a reasonable one, considering he's apparently quite a ways ahead of her, and he sketches into a perfect courtly bow before her. ]

Brennan Trevelyan, my lady. Of Ostwick. And I am not mistaken. Since apparently our stories aren't adding up, I'm going to have to assume you've not yet made your way to Court. Have you, perhaps, had a recent encounter with some Grey Wardens?

[ Best to pinpoint where she might be from, exactly. And how much he's free to speak of. ]