Dorian's sense of smell isn't quite as acute as the Bull's, which makes it a testament to how recognizable the stench of the taint is that Dorian manages to sense it, all the same. Still, he has no way of gauging how close or far it is, whether or not they should risk continuing in that direction – until the Bull stops their progress.

Close, then, Dorian assumes. Uncomfortably so, if the change of route is any indication.

On instinct, he presses his lips tightly together, nodding at the Bull's direction and waving for the other man to proceed. He follows close behind, and when the Bull indicates the small space, Dorian frowns with uncertainty. The crevice seems snug, even to Dorian, and he looks a little pointedly at the Bull as he takes back his staff.

It is, admittedly, better than facing whatever darkspawn horde might be lingering around a corner; Dorian could manage some of his earlier spells, true, but he had been lucky to have those corpses to work with early in the battle. There was no guarantee he would be so fortunate again. Reluctantly, Dorian flicks his fingers, sending his wisp ahead of him to light the way, before slinging his staff into its holster at his back.

He offers the Bull one more heavy look – something that says stay close – before easing his way into the small space.