The scrape of the tips of the Bull's horns is sharp, not unlike nails on a chalkboard, and even Dorian finds himself grimacing at it. It's only after the Bull starts speaking that he manages to notice the brief lapse, the hesitance and trepidation in the other man's voice.

Is it better to draw attention to it? Obviously not, Dorian decides. It would be rather like if the two of them were on a sinking boat, and Dorian said, "I notice you're quite uncomfortable with all this water. Do you want to discuss it?"

Ridiculous. Of course the Bull is uncomfortable here. Who wouldn't be?

Dorian keeps pushing forward, though, letting the Bull work his way through whatever it is he's trying to say. Dorian could helpfully point out that all crawlspaces look rather the same, really, and there's no way of knowing where this one may lead – but perhaps that's too blindly optimistic. Better to present something definite, a plan of action.

"If the way is obstructed, I'll move the stone," he says. In his time with the Inquisition, he's moved enough stone both magically and physically that he wonders if he might have been better suited to construction than politics. "If there's a dead end, I can try to blast us a suitable exit. Failing all else, we'll go back the way we came. I refuse to be thwarted by a dilapidated building."