Dorian snorts at the mental image – first, of someone giving themselves a black eye with the edge of the door, and second, of a herd of nugs scurrying underfoot.

He reaches the door first, opening it without doing himself any bodily harm, and holds it for the Bull to pass through first.

It's a testament, probably, to the time they've spent together that Dorian gets the vague impression of those underlying comments. You know how those highborn types get, the Bull says, because Dorian's spent most of his life among those "highborn types." But evidently the Bull doesn't count Dorian among them, considering he quite pointedly did not say you highborn types.

It's probably meant as a compliment, Dorian thinks. Or, at the very least it's not meant to be an insult. The Bull may be a subtle man when the fancy strikes, but when he wants to poke fun at Dorian, he rarely resorts to anything so understated.

"I'll have you know, I wouldn't be caught dead with a pet nug," he says, putting on just the right amount of haughty. Easier to address the obvious than dive into the deeper meaning of the Bull's words, at least for now. His expression wrinkles as he affects a shudder. "Those creepy little feet. Absolutely horrific."