A rustle of fabric as the stranger stirs has Dorian turning, watching curiously from his station at the tent mouth. So many helpless victims have stumbled in to the oasis's trap - some rant, some rave, some pray to their gods and hope for salvation, yes, exactly that. This one, this new chap, he could go any way, Dorian thinks to himself. Even a violent man can be polite every now and again.

But he doesn't want to be discouraging. Turning his back on the sandstorm brewing in the distance he closes his book over a finger, marking his place, and folds his arms primly.

"I wouldn't know. Do tell me when you find out," he replies lightly. Pointedly even, as if to say it's cute that you believe this is salvation.

Dorian tilts his head enquiringly. He remembers how disgustingly hoarse he'd felt when he's first been trapped.

"I daresay you could do with a drink, hm?"