The elf standing on a street corner and studying the passersby with immense and calculating eyes could perhaps be mistaken for a longer-term resident of the city, were it not for the grotesquely mugging shadowthing attached to him at the hip. It's the only thing that truly perturbs him, though he pays it no visible mind. The Fade has brought him to stranger places before--

--no, that's a lie; this is without question the oddest collection of sights his dreams have ever subjected him to, but it is still a dream, and any mage worth his salt knows how to navigate the dangerous streets of sleep. Whatever demon is leaning over his shoulder and trying to get a rise out of him, it's not doing a very impressive job of it. It could, at the very least, be trying to tempt him with something he wants.

Still steadfastly ignoring it, he shoulders his staff and makes for the sounds of celebration.