No recognition passes across Felassan's face, of course. No expectation of recognition, either, when he says, "Felassan."

He could offer a clan name, as he has done or will do — what is time! — with the Inquisitor, but it would be the name of a clan destroyed in the Orlesian wilds by storm and sword and a demon's whims, and Rook does not seem the name of an elf who's going to want to see his stamped and sealed Dalish credentials. There's no need to trot out fake ones unless she does.

"Have you been here long enough, Rook, to tell me what is going on?"

There are no bells in the room right now. No bubbles, either. He lowers his drink to his hip, further from his mouth, where it'll be less of a temptation to find out what the alternative might be.