Dante is standing on his tip-toes, reaching out to prod at one of the hanging dolls with a blade. He's an odd mage, carrying a set of long rogue's daggers rather than a staff, though he seems quite proficient with them. Less so with raw magical power, though.

He looks towards her at the question. "Are you sure?" His Tevinter accent is poorly concealed; it's why he keeps to himself. As soon as he asks the question, though, the doll he's been touching crumples, dumping centuries-old dust and rotted stuffing onto his head. He yelps in surprise, dropping the knife and swiping frantically at his head to get the mess off of him.