The only thing that would herald the presence of another is the sound of slow, even, rhythmic clapping. And then the jets of colour Atticus had created burst with sudden noise into a display of fireworks.

Sometimes a man has to make his own entertainment.

The stranger, presumably the owner of this dreamscape, was not the masked man that had been watching Atticus so closely. Still, the Medicine Seller was probably no less odd - he looked like an elf and while the style of his attire was probably a bit strange, it was very clearly the kind of finery the Dalish didn't bother with and the city elves couldn't afford.

He was lounging some ways off from the stage where the seats fade into a grassy clearing. A long, thin pipe was held delicately between his fingers. His expression was unreadable - a deliberate sort of neutral to mask what might have been genuine surprise.

Not that he would ever admit to feeling surprised about anything ever.

"I do not often see others here," he remarked. It was, technically, true. He was of little interest to the more benign spirits, and most demons kept a healthy distance. Trying to gain a foothold on the Medicine Seller's pride or desire was like trying to gain purchase on a sheer wall of ice. Slippery, and not worth the hassle.

"...You are not a spirit."

It was stated, matter-of-factly, in that cold, slow tone of his