Dorian isn't, by nature, a man given to a lot of physical intimidation -- it's not really how the Imperium worked, what with all the magic and such, but he's rattled around enough in its less than savory corners to know how to throw a punch, well enough that he has to stem the urge to do so now.

Which he does. His hands curl into fists at his sides in restraint. He met Adelaide when he punched a Templar; it's been known to happen. (Granted, he'd been somewhat drunk.)

For now, he just stares at Scipio as the other man speaks, his grey eyes flat and unimpressed in his neutral expression. He wants to extract information, and he can tell this man is weaselling away from the prospect. "What a charming fairytale," he says, very droll. "How many more of those can you spin before you remember you're surrounded by mages with a vested interest in what's happening to our friend on the other side of that door? Because I think you'll find you can say what goes on."

He's not taller that Scipio, but he can act like it despite his smile and symmetrical white teeth.

"Try."