Dorian is forced to actually take a moment and let his head clear, if only because it's such an affront to be delivering compliments other people have apparently already done. The horror.

"I am, naturally, a paragon of both taste and keen vision," he says, muffled a bit from having his head dropped down into a hand, "if a bit off my usual ability to compliment where no man has complimented before."

He straightens, slides gingerly down from the edge of the pod and begins digging about in its contents; he certainly doesn't intend to keep clinging to it like a shipwreck survivor, so best to ascertain that now. "Very well, then, if you're not a kidnapper and you didn't make off with my speech, who exactly are you? And," he squints, "where exactly are we?"