"Come on Dorian, you judge everybody by their feet?" the Bull asks, moving past him and into the tavern. Usually he'd go straight back to his spot, because when you're Qunari sized and find the one chair that doesn't feel like it's going to break apart if you so much as fart the wrong way, you stick to it like it's attached - but then he'd have to get back up again to get drinks, bring them back, and right now that's a whole thing, so he might as well just head toward Cabot, Cabot's long table, and its tiny, shitty little stools.

That's what happens when you get a dwarf to run the bar, he thinks, then decides that if one shitty comment in the privacy of his own head is as far as his frustration's going to go then he might just be able to give Dorian the kind of distraction he needs today without coming off like too much of an asshole, shitty little stools or not. He can just lean against the counter or drag a crate in front of his chair or something, it doesn't have to be a big deal.

"People have other qualities you know," he goes on, making his way toward the counter and leaning just enough of his weight on it to look like he's at ease. "You've got to work on that, learn to look past the feet. So, what are you thirsty for? They been giving you anything good to drink up there?"