It's vivid, for him. It still sticks in his mind, as easily summoned as something that belongs to him. Familiar, in its way. He remembers, also, a forest in another world, the cracking of fine rabbit bones between strong jaws and the spilling of hot blood, and this other thing could be so much like those memories except for how that copper-tasting residue caught between fangs had, he had known (she had known), belonged to a person.

And it didn't feel like a dream. He drinks from his ale as he allows her explanation to fill the space between them. Measuring it.

"I know dreams," after a moment, setting down the tankard. "Mages who have endured the education of the south are well-versed in their make." A subtle shake of his head, a concrete certainty to it. "It wasn't that, what I recalled. It was a real thing. Again," is a prompt, for her to re-address the question.