"A few days? And then what?" Alleyana asks, quirking a scar-crossed eyebrow. Not that it's any of her business, she knows. She can damn near hear Dorian drawling in the background; The Inquisitor is being inquisitive! Who would have ever guessed?

She misses her people, too.

"You'll have to talk to reception about a room; I don't work here," the elf is quick to distance herself from her own question. "I'm Alley. Alleyana Lavellan."

Not that the name holds any significance here, anyway. Just as Steve's doesn't bring a flash of recognition, no one's snapping any salutes at the Inquisitor, either. Which she's fine with; it's the rest of the situation she's not fond of.

This place feels like a diversion, like a trap. Like Solas somehow got her sent here to get her off his trail, to keep her safe while he rends the world apart. So he doesn't have to look her in the eye when he does it.

...She's starting to see the appeal in those cigarettes the priest upstairs smokes.