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
The explosion of sound and colour above him makes him instinctively put up a hand; the multitude of colourful tinsel and smoke fall around him in an arch, but don't touch him. It is through this veil of smoke that he glimpses the Medicine Seller, and realizes with some subdued surprise that this man is the dreamer--not the masked one who had been following him.
"I do not often see others here. ...You are not a spirit."
"Clearly not."
He lowers his hand, then pushes it to the side as though moving aside a curtain; in response, a low wind blows and sweeps the smoke and tinsel away. Approaching the edge of the dais, he steps off of it onto a flight of wooden steps that rise up from the ground to meet each of his steps. Down the stairs he descends, and approaches the Medicine Seller with avid interest; around him, the chairs scuttle out of his way on deer-like feet.
Atticus stops some meters away from the oddly dressed elf, then turns his head to the side to find that masked face still watching him from the treeline. He frowns, though it's hidden behind his own mask. "This is," he begins in a musing, pensive, and not entirely unthreatened voice, "peculiar magic."
He turns his stare back on the Medicine Seller. "If this is your dream, then who is it who accompanies you? How have you transported another here into the Fade with you?"
He watched Atticus as the man altered the carefully constructed dreamscape. It was, he suspected, a show of power. If it was to intimidate, Atticus would be wasting his time and energy - the Medicine Seller had no interest in such things. If it was to impress - then it Atticus had accomplished his goal. True, the Medicine Seller had some control over his surroundings - there had been times where he needed to delve much, muchdeeper into a Mononoke's mind to dredge up their Truth and Regret. The illusions he created to probe their psyches had given him some basic grounding in this malleable plane. But Atticus controlled it with the ease even many of the spirits did not posses.
The Medicine Seller was fascinated.
"There are many things here one could call ...peculiar. The nature of duality should not be one of them."
He took a long pull from the pipe, and exhaled, filling the air with sweetly smelling smoke, and then offered it to the stranger.
"How does a man from beyond this place command it so deftly, I wonder?"
Atticus regards the pipe as it is extended to him, shifts his eyes to meet the Medicine Seller's strange ones, then steps forward to accept it.
"How does a man from beyond this place command it so deftly, I wonder?"
At this question, he responds only with a thin smile, and doesn't rise to the bait. He supposes it is possible that this elf could simply be a cleverly disguised demon, and, though unlikely, it is better to err on the side of caution. "You're so certain that I'm not of this place?" he asks instead, and brings up the pipe to smoke from it.
It was good tobacco. A perfect blend for passing a pleasant spring day under the boughs of an orchard in full bloom. The Medicine Seller was always particular about such things, especially in his dreams.
"You are not a spirit," he repeated. Atticus had affirmed as much not a moment earlier. Still, he couldn't blame the man for being suspicious.
"Perhaps there are other things here aside from spirits and dreamers," he said. "But I have not met them. Nor read about them."
“Nor I,” Atticus replies, savoring the foreign taste of the smoke on his tongue. He shifts his eyes back to the face of the masked apparition still lurking within the line of paper trees several metres away. A moment later, and the Medicine Seller is the recipient of Atticus’ intense focus again, his peculiarly pale blue eyes studying the shape of the elf in front of him as though searching it for some indication of just what he is.
He offers him his pipe back; he may be a monster, but he’s not a greedy one. “You can affect the Fade,” he notes softly, recalling the show of fireworks that the Medicine Seller had made of the splash of color Atticus had painted across the air. “Are you somniari, or a spirit yourself?” He doubts the latter.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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
no subject
"I do not often see others here. ...You are not a spirit."
"Clearly not."
He lowers his hand, then pushes it to the side as though moving aside a curtain; in response, a low wind blows and sweeps the smoke and tinsel away. Approaching the edge of the dais, he steps off of it onto a flight of wooden steps that rise up from the ground to meet each of his steps. Down the stairs he descends, and approaches the Medicine Seller with avid interest; around him, the chairs scuttle out of his way on deer-like feet.
Atticus stops some meters away from the oddly dressed elf, then turns his head to the side to find that masked face still watching him from the treeline. He frowns, though it's hidden behind his own mask. "This is," he begins in a musing, pensive, and not entirely unthreatened voice, "peculiar magic."
He turns his stare back on the Medicine Seller. "If this is your dream, then who is it who accompanies you? How have you transported another here into the Fade with you?"
no subject
The Medicine Seller was fascinated.
"There are many things here one could call ...peculiar. The nature of duality should not be one of them."
He took a long pull from the pipe, and exhaled, filling the air with sweetly smelling smoke, and then offered it to the stranger.
"How does a man from beyond this place command it so deftly, I wonder?"
no subject
"How does a man from beyond this place command it so deftly, I wonder?"
At this question, he responds only with a thin smile, and doesn't rise to the bait. He supposes it is possible that this elf could simply be a cleverly disguised demon, and, though unlikely, it is better to err on the side of caution. "You're so certain that I'm not of this place?" he asks instead, and brings up the pipe to smoke from it.
no subject
"You are not a spirit," he repeated. Atticus had affirmed as much not a moment earlier. Still, he couldn't blame the man for being suspicious.
"Perhaps there are other things here aside from spirits and dreamers," he said. "But I have not met them. Nor read about them."
no subject
He offers him his pipe back; he may be a monster, but he’s not a greedy one. “You can affect the Fade,” he notes softly, recalling the show of fireworks that the Medicine Seller had made of the splash of color Atticus had painted across the air. “Are you somniari, or a spirit yourself?” He doubts the latter.