The Bull is too busy keeping an eye on all the heavy, unmoving rock above them to look over at Dorian, but he does give a low chuckle. "Get a couple drinks in me and I'd take that as an invitation."

Maybe he normally wouldn't even need an invitation, but - well. Once he can focus on it a little better, maybe.

"So, I'm guessing you wouldn't want it to be a song about your ass? Or your legs or your nose or your staff? And it can't be only about your jewellery. So what kind of ballad would you write, if you got to choose your own?"