As the Inquisitor had seen fit to leave Dorian behind whilst she went traipsing about the Hissing Wastes--a field trip he had no problem sitting out quite frankly, considering how poorly his complexion suffered when blasted with sand and wind--he was left to his own devices.

Devices that mostly happened to be sitting in the tavern trying to out-drink Bull's Chargers, but still. Nothing out of the ordinary.

And then a strangely tattooed elf sends a tavern wench tipping arse over teakettle and comes up sputtering like a wet cat. And are those the dulcet tones of his homeland he hears swearing so viciously? This, he cannot resist.

Rising from his seat, he comes over to offer the poor girl his arm and set her on her feet again before the elf trips over her a second time.

"There," Dorian says, scooping a half-tankard of ale from where it spins on the floor and setting it on the table with a flourish. "You've managed to clean the floor and we're all thankful for that I'm sure. Now if you could please fetch the poor man a towel before he catches a chill, he'd be ever so thankful, wouldn't you friend?"

He glances at the elf, arching an expectant eyebrow.