Oh, if Bull could hear that assessment. He would adore it. And probably encourage it. Because that would be the best thing he ever heard. Now, though, the time is for fighting. For beating down a goddamn dragon while this other guy... does whatever weird crap he's doing.

The approaching dragon gets a wide, gleaming smile out of him. The familiar feelings of his own adrenaline and the vague inklings of his own anger. Nothing like it had been. Not yet.

But it's enough to bellow back a challenge. Something nonsensical in Qunlat. Something no one else here will probably understand. It's not as overwhelming as the dragon's cry, but oh man. It feels damn good to do it. To shout at it, threaten it. And stand his ground in front of a scurrying, massive beast fit to rend whole armies apart. He's aware of the chaos behind him. One glance shows a mess of limbs and wriggling flesh and -- "Holy shit," Bull announces to the stranger. "That's gross."

On one side, a mage changing shape. On the other, a pissed-off dragon.

Oh hot damn this is going to be a good fight.

With another yell of challenge, the Iron Bull swings the axe around and down like the wrath of one of Solas' fucking Elven Gods on the dragon's oncoming nose.