nibbling | open post pt. 2.

Update to that mental image: he's not just going to spend all day making awkward small-talk with someone whose name he's only 75% sure of. He's going to spend all day making awkward small-talk with an unabashed sewer guy who uses words like crapper. Astarion slips his lockpicking tools back into his pocket, gingerly turning the knob before dusting his hands off like he finds merely touching things down here distasteful. Suffice it to say that he isn't the type of person who scouts out sewers of his own free will.

"All that diligence just to protect your bottom." A sidelong glance. "I suppose it is a rather larger target than most."

If Astarion's one-sixteenth drow (ha), he can only assume Bull is one-sixteenth orc, or something of the like. He's certainly unusually-sized for a tiefling.

"—Well." He nudges the door open with the toe of his boot. "I'll defer to your... sewer expertise." Gross! "Lead the way."

There's certainly something a little orcish, or maybe even ogre, in the way Bull snorts at that comment. Half-crouches, half-ducks, still careful of his knee, but he's well practiced at how to angle his horns and the bulk of his body through the doorway in one uninterrupted movement.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, then flashes a grin back over one broad grey shoulder: "You stay back there and keep an eye on my larger target."

It's a bad idea to talk in the sewer, voices echoing up and down the pipes to who knows where. But the guy moves like a ghost even on the metal grating so after about ten minutes and a couple turns, when they start following the length of a huge iron pipe murmuring with rushing water, Bull speaks again just to make sure his charge hasn't slipped off back the way they came. "So, sent on a daylight errand even though you've got a sunlight... sensitivity. Your boss an asshole?"

Astarion doesn't mind the silence at all. He's come to view the company of others as something inherently negative, solitude his only reprieve. This isn't quite like being alone, but it's close. With Bull ahead of him, he doesn't have to contend with being looked at too much or overly crowded. All he has to focus on are his own light steps, footwork careful to avoid making noise or getting the heel of his boot stuck in the opening of a grate. He starts to think that perhaps killing time until night falls won't be so bad after all, as long as his new companion keeps giving him space.

And then Bull turns his head and brings up his least favorite topic in the world, and a dark cloud falls over his mood again. His shoulders stiffen again at the description: boss, as if it's any more offensive than the truth, which is master of your body and soul.

"I—" he starts, fully ready to launch into a tirade about his most hated person in the world... and then he deflates, shoulders curling inward. Pitiful as it is, he's afraid to say anything for fear that it will somehow come back on him; on a rational level, Astarion knows that it isn't true, but Cazador sometimes seems omnipotent, omniscient. He's certainly the god of Astarion's world. "It's complicated. Obviously."

And that's all he wants to say on that topic. Quickly changing the subject: "Where did you say you were from, again? Somewhere with lots of sewers, I imagine?"

It's an interesting response, one Bull is willing to put a pin in. Admirable caution, not to talk shit regardless of how complicated it is. Get a couple drinks in him, Bull thinks, and see how long that discretion holds.

"Northern archipelago called Par Vollen," Bull says with total honesty. "Don't worry, I already know you've never heard of it." People generally assume this means he's sailed in from somewhere out past the Moonshae Isles, and while he'd been initially pissed as hell about how granular maps here are, when he still thought he was just 'round the globe from Thedas, now he's kind of grateful for that geographic myopia. "How about you, new to the—"

He pauses, then stops suddenly, stepping to the side and holding out an arm to keep Astarion from going on. They're coming up on a four-way intersection, and he frowns, intent, at the patches of dripping green slime off to the left-ways path.

"Hey. Quiet a sec, Tiptoes." Low. Serious, despite the nickname. It's possible he also doesn't know Astarion's name, what about it.

Listening, they can hear the muffled sounds of people, or creatures, talking to each other further down the tunnel, though he can't make out what they're saying. Right now they're out of each other's line of sight, and he kinda wants to keep it that way — Bull takes a moment, mentally retracing his steps to figure out if they can double back and find another way right, towards where the clean water pipe is coming from.

"You any good in a fight?"

'Quiet a sec'! You were the one yapping, Astarion feels the urge to say, but he swallows it down upon hearing signs of life in the tunnels of the sewers. If he were the optimistic type, he might reason that anyone could be down here for any reason, and that the presence of other living creatures down here doesn't automatically mean a fight is forthcoming. He's not the optimistic type, so by the time Bull asks about his scrapping prowess, he's already pulled his dagger out in paranoia.

"I think I have the basic concepts down," is equally low, a little dry. While Astarion is hardly trained in any sort of combat, he's pugnacious enough that he doesn't think it matters much. He makes a thrusting motion with his dagger. "Stab them until they stop moving. And then maybe a little more after that, just to be safe."

It's readily apparent that he's not hesitant to do such a thing by the way he lifts his eyebrows as if in question. Are they about to kill some people or what?

They are.

Though it's not so much people as two gunky little flying guys that look like they belong in the Fade. This place doesn't have a Fade, so Bull just swears in qunari under his breath as they're noticed and goes with Astarion's strategy: hit it until it stops moving.

It's a shitty fight, no pun intended — not because they're outmatched, but because they're in a sewer and their opponents can fly. Bull leaps over a rivulet of something he'd rather not think about with a "Get the fuck back here," narrowly misses falling into the muck, smashes his club through the slimy creature only to have it explode and shower him in fluids anyway. Great.

"Magic fucking demon crap," Bull mutters as he rejoins Astarion on the grated walkway, enunciating every consonant sharply as he tries to wipe himself clean - the fluffy Barbarian armour is basically beyond saving, and it's not doing shit for his rampage, so he tugs its ties loose and wipes his face off on a clean bit. At least it looks like the elf pulled his weight, who'da thunk.

Astarion looks not dissimilar to an expensive purebred cat that's gotten left out in the rain, if by 'rain' you mean monster goo. There's a dead whatever-it-is at his feet, and he shakes his boot to rid them of the worst of its remains, but it's still in his hair, on his clothes.

"Hells," he says miserably, irritation evident in his voice, because he doesn't get upset, he gets angry. Astarion has very few material possessions to his name, and he takes great care to preserve them for the sake of his dignity. Magic demon guts are not dignified. He wipes at the worst spots with his hands, but all it does is manage to make them sticky and disgusting, too.

He glances up at Bull, displeasure not targeted at him specifically but rather radiating out of him at all angles. "I don't suppose you know how to get viscera out of cotton."

The fact that he's discarded his armor isn't encouraging. At least it wasn't people, at least there wasn't much blood. He's so hungry he's not sure he could take the torment of being soaked with the thing he wants most and can't have.

Bull tosses his armour over his shoulder with a wet slap and takes in this pathetic sight solemnly. He'd already determined Astarion was a priss, isn't gonna harry him about it, and they don't know each other well enough for a joke. So what does that leave?

A tilt of his wide horns the way they were going before the fight. "All these pipes coming together, there'll be a valve system soon. Might be enough water to rinse off. Try... not to think about it 'til then."

No point picking through the remains hoping there's something worth selling, and the longer they let it dry out the worse this'll be — he sets off, squishing a little in his boots. This isn't the most disgusting he's ever felt by a long shot, but it brings home his own grim circumstances.

Bull doesn't really have gods these days, but he's thankful all the same when another half a dozen water pipes gather together out of the walls and they reach the place where all of it comes from. They pass the great big slabs of metal that are the sluice gates, the tanks that turn sea water into fresh water with a water wheel chugging away. Climb the rusty stairs up to another grated platform where there are big pull-down switches and enormous wheels. It's all way beyond Bull's expertise. Mechanical shit's as unintelligible to him as the magical. But there's a smaller tank with a tap and a little window, for testing the water, and it doesn't take a lot of know how to hop over the rail to try the hatch on top of it, haul it off with great groaning effort.

"Ha!" he bellows happily when it's full of clean water. "Oh yeah, that'll do nicely." Pleased with himself. The water level is high, and there's even a little maintenance ladder. Probably they shouldn't rinse this crap off in the city's drinking water, but they're gonna.

Gods, he is spry for someone so lumbering, isn't he? Astarion watches with mild interest as Bull vaults over the railing, following behind with a far more cautious approach. He is no sewer expert, and he's very afraid that these are going to turn out to be tanks of nasty sewer water.

He approaches, standing on tiptoe to peer over the side of the tank. His nose twitches as he sniffs suspiciously, and he carefully dips his fingers over the side to submerge them, inherently cautious around water. One dip in the Chionthar and he'd be burned like it was acid, but this water seems still.

He's not sure if he's supposed to, like, get in, and he's certainly not going to ask, so Astarion stands back to watch what Bull does instead.

"Mm, well done, B—" He falters, visibly debating what the correct name is. Squinting: "Bronco?" That's definitely right. He looks like a Bronco.

Bull is taking off his boots because it's a bitch to swim with shoes on. He pauses with the second one halfway off his foot at Bronco, then lets out such a laugh he actually loses his balance and has to let go of the shoe and catch himself.

"I guess we didn't really get properly introduced," he says with a grin, trying again and getting it off the second time. Boots go in a pile with his leather shoulder brace to be cleaned later. His faded black tribal tattoos, worked over both shoulders and biceps, are now visible as he approaches the ladder to the water.

"I'm The Iron Bull," he says amiably, doesn't bother offering a hand, just a tip of his chin. "But most people just call me Bull. You?"

So they are supposed to be getting in. Astarion shifts his weight between his feet, uncertain. See, the issue is that he's not sure if he can swim (or float, as the case may be). Drowning isn't a worry, but what he fears more than death is looking like a fool, and the possibility of having some involuntary panic reaction in the water gives him pause. Then again, so does the idea of walking around covered in dried goo.

He toes his shoes off, but doesn't step any closer to the tank yet. "Astarion," is offhanded, because it doesn't really matter if Bull knows his name or not, given the fact that they're probably never going to work together again after this. "Most people call me Astarion."

Well. When they're not calling him denigrating names, anyway.

Hands on his hips, killing time while he decides whether he should take the literal plunge or not: "So, first name The? Is it a family name, or...?" Obviously it's not. What sane person would name their child The Iron Bull?

Bull pauses on the ladder, still halfway out. Like that weird-ass Dalish name is any better. "Place I'm from just numbers kids 'til they're old enough to earn a name based on their role. I picked The Iron Bull... and I like the article. Got a real dehumanising flavour to it." A grunt for emphasis, hah, and the way he's smiling it's hard to tell if he's joking or not.

Clarification won't be forthcoming, though, because then he slides the rest of the way down the ladder and into the water with a low whoop and a big splash.

When he surfaces his voice is tinny from the dark of the tank, as he pedals in place, washing the slime off his arms. It's freezing his fucking cock off, but he already feels cleaner. "Hey, Astarion, you let that dry on your shirt, you'll never get the stain out."

Par Vollen and its customs sound fake as fuck, but Astarion doesn't know enough geography or culture to dispute it. He's not surprised Bull picked it out himself, anyway. It sounds like the sort of thing a thirteen-year-old might call himself to sound cool. (He absolutely is not going to touch 'dehumanizing'.)

He's right about the stain. Astarion forces himself onto the ladder, loitering at the top, where he stares down into the murky depths. How deep is it? Deep enough that someone two feet taller than him just cannon-balled into it. He could just take off his shirt and let it soak, but then he'd have a whole new problem to deal with once Bull saw his back. Astarion doesn't particularly care if he has to come up with a lie for why he has strange symbols carved into him, but he does fear Cazador getting angry if he finds out that Astarion spoke to someone about it.

Fear of Cazador wins out, as it always does. Astarion very, very carefully lowers himself down into the water until he has no choice but to let go of the ladder. Just don't panic, he tells himself. Instantly, of course, he panics, spluttering and splashing like— well, like a white, fluffy cat that's been submerged in the bath.

Bull watches this cautious, reluctant descent into the tank without saying anything. Sort of charmed despite himself, really, especially when Astarion drops and immediately acts like he's drowning. Bull sighs and sculls over, grabs a hold of a rung of the ladder with one hand over his head to make sure they don't both sink, and Astarion with the other. (Under one arm, at least, rather than the back of his neck like a kitten.)

"Easy now, I gotcha," he rumbles, blinking splashed water out of his eyes and holding Astarion above the surface until he's stopped thrashing around, bobbing as he continues treading water. "Grab onto a horn if you need to, I can take it."

It feels like being grabbed by the scruff like a kitten. In spirit, at least, if not in actuality. It's possibly even more embarrassing than thrashing around in the first place. If he'd been relatively certain they would never see each other again after this before, he's positive now. He'll make sure of it, because this is humiliating.

"I don't want to hold onto your handlebars," Astarion grouses, but then he grabs one anyway for fear of sinking into the depths like a stone. He takes one unnecessary breath, and then another. Still above water, although he probably wouldn't be if left to his own devices.

Obviously, this all makes him wish someone would stake him in the heart. "I was only surprised because of how cold it is, that's all."

Bull snorts softly. "Freeze your tits off," he agrees. Gingerly lets go of Astarion, not really believing this story for a second, but he seems to have stopped struggling and Bull needs a hand free to keep de-gunking himself. Despite their closeness in the dark, he's fine with keeping quiet and playing furniture, minimal intimacy while they do what they gotta do. A soldier's practicality.

"Hey," he does say, just to distract Astarion from his own embarrassment. "You think if I rinsed off that armour I could get a few coin for it? Itches like a bastard." He doesn't want to wear it, and he doesn't really need to, just makes people feel better when he dresses in a way they understand. But he can't really afford to just throw it away. "Maybe I can stash it somewhere and come back later."

This feels absolutely ridiculous, but it at least doesn't feel bad with Bull's hands-off approach. Astarion doesn't particularly enjoy touching people as a rule, but the horns are so sturdy as to hardly feel like they're part of someone else at all, and Bull's complete lack of interest in keeping his own hand on Astarion is relieving.

And also kind of offensive? Astarion is handsome and wet. Anyone should be lucky to hold him up like a drowning kitten, actually.

Regardless, he works on getting his own gunk off, cleaning off his hair with a wet palm. "It's barbarian armor. I didn't know it came clean to begin with." Because barbarians are, well, barbarians. "Just say some nonsense about having bathed in the innards of some fearsome beast, and those brutes will pay you twice as much."

Satisfied that the worst of the goo is gone (although still sporting a little goo in his hair despite his efforts), Astarion stretches an arm up to grab the first rung of the ladder. He should probably go first, given that he might drown and die if Bull leaves him down here.

Bull nods at this idea. Might work, with the right trader. "Fearsome beast. Got it."

He's not actually immune to handsome and wet, just has a really good poker face when he feels like it. Doesn't even hesitate to offer, "Need a boost?" or to let Astarion clamber him however he needs to get back on the ladder. Reminds him, with a sad little bit of nostalgia, of Sera climbing up there to get higher ground to shoot from. She would have pranked this prissy elf to death, his or hers.

Bull gives his horns one last rinse and follows Astarion up the ladder. Air on wet skin isn't warming him up any, and they don't have anything to dry off with, but at least they're not dripping with weird viscera anymore. And he's out of ideas, so he just sits down and starts clipping his shoulder harness back on — he overdid it a little in the tank and his old scars are feeling it.

"Hey, when we report back to Nine-Fingers, maybe let's leave this part out," he suggests. "We'll dry off, get the job done, and nobody needs to know we got greased up and took a bath in the drinking water." Though even as he says it he knows he'll probably tell her. Unsupervised access to the water supply is a city-wide illness waiting to happen, and the whole reason he's with the Thieves Guild is it seems like the only organisation that actually gives a crap about its own city.

On the bright side, Astarion is no longer covered in whatever serves for monster guts. However, he's not one to look on the bright side, so once they're out of the tank, he flops his sleeves a little pathetically, irritated at the dripping. The perils of having bathed fully-clothed. The usually ambient temperature of his body has grown even colder and more corpselike, and his toes squish in his boots when he slips them back on. Ugh.

A shrug. "Oh, I really couldn't care less what you tell her. But if it's all the same, you can do the reporting back alone." He crosses his arms, still dripping onto the concrete floor. "This is already taking too long, and I—"

He pauses, unwilling to say that his quote-unquote boss is going to be angry that the shipment took so long to come in, and that if Astarion doesn't hurry back as soon as he's able to, his mood will be even worse. "Well, I have places to be."

"Oh yeah?" Bull pauses in pulling on a boot and looks up at him, horns slanted with the tip of his head. "Like where?" Keeps his tone genial, just lightly curious instead of challenging, even though that's very much what he's doing. As far as he's concerned, the plan is boat - delivery - guild. For both of them.

"Aren't you delightfully nosy?" None of your beeswax, essentially. Astarion rolls up his wet sleeves and arranges a few curls with his fingers, attempting to make the best of what is undoubtedly an undignified appearance. "Maybe I have a wife and two little brats waiting breathlessly for daddy to come home."

"Nah," says Bull, dismissing this out of hand, calmly rude. "People with families are happy. You've got something else going on. I don't care what that is, so long as it doesn't fuck me out of getting paid." He tries to bring the point home without escalating into dick-swinging threats, keeping his hands clear and visible. "And right now I'm getting paid to follow you around until I'm told to stand down."

Astarion blatantly rolls his eyes at the suggestion that people with families are happy. Personally, having two screaming children to return to sounds almost as bad as having a temperamental vampire lord to return to. Whenever his life is shit—which is frequently—he can at least find solace in the fact that he isn't a father, thank the gods.

Even despite the lack of dick-swinging, he gets the message loud and clear. Obviously, this isn't a safe space to express the fact that he'd prefer to fuck off the moment he gets the option. So, he straightens up, smiling pleasantly as he clasps his hands behind his back in the picture of innocence.

"Of course. I'll be a perfect angel, then."

He'll just slip off after the job's done, permitted or not. What is Bull going to do, tackle him to the ground?

Amused: "You're full of shit." But fine, he'll accept this bullshit promise of good behaviour (or he assumes that's what that means, Thedas doesn't exactly have 'angels' or anything like them) and cross the bridge of reality when they come to it.

He sniffs noisily, rubs the bridge of his nose because he's pretty sure he got water up there. Goes back to lacing his boots — tight, like he can tie his temper up in there too. He's just cold, that's all.

He is full of shit! But Bull seems satisfied enough with his bullshitting to let it drop, so Astarion doesn't bother defending himself against the (true) accusation. Instead, he watches Bull finish his very tight lacing up, then leans against the concrete wall of the sewer—before immediately pushing off, because it's probably disgusting.

"Well, if you're so determined to nip at my heels like an unruly puppy," he says, obviously put out, "I suppose there's nothing to do but wait until nightfall."

A beat. He crosses his arms. Taps his fingers on his elbow. Crosses his legs at the ankle, then uncrosses them.

"...Gods, this is boring."

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