"Yeah, that's one way to leave an impression," the Bull says, bracing himself to move away from any wall to lean against long enough to make it to the table Dorian's moving him toward.

He feels his breath moving in harsh gusts through his nose, leans on Dorian a little more than he wants to and his bad leg a lot more than he should, and tries to drag the conversation to the top of his thoughts, think about that while the rest of him does the things it needs to. Dorian isn't really playing along; for him that means things are serious, that the topic is important enough for him to draw that kind of attention to it. Which means the Bull's answer wasn't the right one, that he must have miscalculated.

Better, then, to ask him straight out. The Bull makes it to the table, turns, hops up. The pain is still what it is, but at least he doesn't have to put any weight on the thing until they have to move again.

"Like I said," he goes on, now that the part of his mind that had been keeping him moving is free up enough to help him focus on it. "What else did you think I was going to do? Get pissed off at you? Go back and report you to the templars?"