The response earns a small, halfhearted smile as he crouches down in front of the Bull. Dorian's healing magic is basic, at best – the sort of fundamental skills one teaches a fledgling mage to gauge his interest and aptitude. He rests both hands above the Bull's ankle, palms glowing with the same green as the floating wisps as he assesses the damage.

"You wouldn't have been the first," he replies, voice and gaze a little distant as he examines the injury. "I mostly hear it from Vivienne. Cassandra, sometimes. She enjoys telling me cautionary tales about her uncle, a Mortalitasi. She says the smell of embalming fluid makes her want to retch. Sera isn't much of a fan, either, for obvious reasons, and neither is Cole, though he's not quite so direct with his criticisms, as you might imagine. I found myself apologizing to him, nevertheless."

The boy had seemed so distressed at the time.

With the injury properly examined, he draws another wisp across the Veil, channeling its energies to partially mend some of the damage.

"This may be painful," he warns, though he's already set to work. "This will be a temporary measure a best. A healer with legitimate training will need to see to this."