He cuts his eye sharply towards the movement out of the corner of his eye, and a subtle movement of his hand conjures a whorl of smoke into his palm. At the sight of the frail young woman before him, it fades, and though his posture doesn't relax, some of his instinctive defensiveness ebbs. (He is still a stranger in a strange land, as it were.)

"...I thought you were a Sentry."

At that observation, Atticus smiles thinly. "No," he answers, his tone of voice mild and cultured and decidedly unsettling, "that I am not."

Behind him, his monstrous shadow passenger makes a crude rendering of his smirk. He dutifully ignores it and instead takes a step towards the girl, but his attention is primarily focused on the ship. "What do you know of this ship?" he asks her, gesturing towards it with one hand.