Dorian had, oddly enough, been left by and large alone here. Resplendent though he was, he wore the trappings of Tevinter on his sleeve, and after a very quietly snide exchange with some older noblewoman that Josephine would likely sigh over him sassing, Dorian had taken to perching on the edge of proceedings with a glass of wine that he was re-filling all on his own from a bottle pilfered from an unattended selection. He heard the mutterings, oh yes, the thinly-veiled insults thrown the Inquisitor's way, about everything from his heritage to his trappings (and that certainly got Dorian's hackles up), to the company that he kept. He bristles to hear what they're saying about Varric, and about Bull, particularly when they get patronizing about the brutish way they expect qunari to be. Nevermind that once, he might have held the same opinions. But minds could be changed after all, when they're willing.

He's been pointedly shooting back at any and every question or comment that comes his way about the Inquisition, and if it weren't for him wanting to preserve their good name here, he might have let himself get deep in his cups and actually start something about it.

He doesn't say any of this to Sen though. When the other comes to check in with him, Dorian simply smiles, picking himself up to face him more fully.

"It's been a fascinating venture," he replies dryly. "Have you tried eating anything yet? Do try the ham, tastes of despair."

His voice lowers, and he leans a touch closer. "You're doing wonderfully, amatus. I daresay you'll have them eating out of your hands by the end of the night."