That is the actual most wretched fate Dorian can imagine, because he hasn't been found and swung around by Bull, like some hideous romance novel cliche he will enjoy thoroughly.

Anyway. He employs every ounce of his aristocratic breeding for an expression of genteel horror lightly encrusted with disgust, nose wrinkling like a crushed can. "Maker, how utterly appalling. Why not spit poison or turn distracting colors? Even plants have no standards these days."

...however. "I wonder if we could find a disabled one, so to speak. Anything worth being wary of is worth knowing more about, wouldn't you say?"

Most people would not say that. They would say hey, let's avoid that! Those people are not rebellious heretic archivists.