[Rhiall sees her approaching out of the corner of her eye—just a girl, a barely-there wisp of a thing she watches until it's clear enough she means no harm, and then she relaxes by degrees.

Instinct reaches for the Herald of Andraste spiel, but...no one's heard the stories, or knows who she is here. Maybe she can leave the pretenses behind. She purses her lips and glances up at the rift—and with a snap of her wrist and clasped fingers, draws it shut, eliciting the all too common burst of momentary energy and the sharp crack that rends the air after. Like a lightning strike.]

To tell you the truth, I could try and answer that question, but I'd only make a fool of myself. I'm not even sure how it works. I just... [And she waggles her fingers around the swiftly fading mark on her hand.] ...do this. Suddenly I'm tearing and mending holes in reality.

[She watches the girl a moment longer, then arches an eyebrow, tilting her head.] You're elven?

[She's seen an abundance of shapeshifters here, but as yet no elves. By this point she's used to it, but still...]