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.
Bull is perfectly entertained just watching him fidget. "Shoulda brought a book," he points out.
But then he relents, leans back on one hand, sprawling out a little. "Let's play a game. I'll make three statements. Two are true, and one's a lie. Then you gotta pick the lie."
He's been trying to get this started in the Guild — it's a good way to learn information about the world that people think is obvious, pick up gossip and who knows who, since people usually choose to tell some salacious lie about someone they know and think you don't.
For example, "Uktar doesn't have a nose under that mask," he says, scratching his horn. "Blushing Mermaid sells bottles of something called scrangle, aaaand, uh, it's a full moon tomorrow night."
Plus it's a good way to trick people into thinking you have an obvious tell, so you can thrash them at Wicked Grace later. Or whatever people here call Wicked Grace.
This is idiotic. Astarion's expression says as much, but in case it's unclear: "This is idiotic."
Why would he want to play some childish game to pass the time? They've already talked more than he would like as is. They can just wait it out in boring silence—
Astarion's eyebrow twitches. A trick it might be, but he's fairly certain he's cued into one of Bull's giveaways, and he tilts his chin up a little, pleased at the prospect of winning. Even at something as admittedly idiotic as this.
"...Uktar, obviously." Said with the offhandedness of someone who's pretending he doesn't care about this dumb game, but who will absolutely be annoyed if it turns out he's wrong. "If he were lacking a nose, they'd call him some ridiculous nickname like No-Nose or Flat-Face."
"Yeah, pretty sure it's just a normal face under there," Bull acquiesces blithely, "You got it. Still dunno what a scrangle is."
He's pretty pleased himself, that Astarion is playing along with his 'idiotic games' instead of acting like a bored kid. "One point to you. Your turn. C'mon, hit me with some hot gossip."
Despite himself, Astarion looks proud of that 'one point'. What are these points even for? He doesn't know! But it feels nice to have one, and he suppresses a smile.
"Well," he says, needing very little encouragement to descend into gossip, "I'm fairly certain our illustrious guildmaster has, ah, enjoyed the private company of some of her bodyguards. Oh, and that Zenovia isn't just a member of the Rivington Rats, she is a wererat! Mmmm, and Bad Twin Bubbins smells."
He might have forgotten that the point of the game isn't just to slander people.
"You're shitting me about the rat thing," Bull says. It's not really based on anything except: "There's no way 'wererats' are a thing." He refuses to believe that one's true.
And Astarion's good enough at this that he couldn't pick the lie just based on his face. Which is fun, really, that he doesn't have to let him win just so the game keeps going. Also a little unnerving, and the part of his brain that looks at every situation like he's a spy in enemy territory makes some adjustments.
"You haven't seen a wererat?" Astarion asks, tilting his head like a confused dog. "Gods, the city is practically replete with them."
...Honestly, kind of weird!! He's never met a person who didn't know about wererats before. They're like a common urban pest, really. Astarion squints for a moment, his own brain making a few adjustments— and then he shrugs.
"Mmm, but I don't think Zenovia is one," he admits. "She doesn't have that twitchy sort of look."
Huh. Wererats. Add that to the list of weird races and species who live in this world. Bull's still adjusting to gnomes.
He sucks his teeth a moment in a tsk, annoyed with himself. "Well, point to me." Points are more fun when there's drinks, of course, or some kind of wager, but he isn't wasting gold on either of those at the moment.
Fucking wererats.
"Okay. The guy who lives in that big tower above the mage shop, Lorroakan, he's a faker. Lady Flux is allergic to most flowers. Aaaand," he itches his horn again idly. "Nine-Fingers' real name is Bethany."
"Obviously not," Astarion shoots back, and this time he seems like he's genuinely having some fun. He likes this 'making up rude lies about other people' thing. It appeals to his most base desires: to be a horrible gossip and to bring other people down so that he feels better about himself.
"It's, ah—" He waffles, uncertain. So, he can't quite remember what her real name is, but it's definitely not Bethany. "Alice, or something of that like." Close enough.
He's contemplative for a moment, debating whether he should say anything. Then: "Has anyone ever told you that you have a tell?" Bull really got him hook, line, and sinker with this one.
"No shit," Bull says, scowling convincingly at this revelation. "That so? That'd explain why I keep losing at cards."
Incorrigible. Absolutely remorseless, too. Kinda likes that Astarion is telling him, though. He'd consider honesty in return if he didn't think it would swing bad on him. "What is it?"
If Bull liked Astarion pointing out his tell, he won't like this next part. Astarion smiles, duper's delight, as he points to his own nose. After two centuries of making deception his shield, he feels little to no guilt about lying; there's no tell of his own when he says, smoothly, "Oh, nothing much. Those nostrils of yours flare."
Wait, what? "You're so full of shit," Bull laughs, booming. His respect for Astarion's ability to lie so cleanly outweighs any outrage he might have at being the target. Getting his own shit turned around on him. The misdirection of it all. Great stuff.
"Here's a truth for you," he says, still bright-eyed. "Whoever has got you playing errand boy is wasting your real skills. You should be spying for — what's it here, the Patriars? Yeah. Fuck. Raking in coin doing political espionage."
Oh, he likes that response. Bull is so right—he is being wasted. Astarion's usual body language makes him appear vaguely repulsed by everything and everyone around him, but having his potential pointed out fills him with visible pride. His shoulders straighten out, his nose hikes a little higher, and his mouth quivers a little as he obviously tries to fight a pleased grin.
"I do have the makings of success, don't I?"
It's clear that he believes that, too, believes that he's overqualified for this menial nonsense. It's also clear that no one else has ever seemed to share the sentiment, given the look of surprise-slash-delight in his eyes.
The look dulls a moment later, though, and he kicks at nothing on the floor. Bitterly: "Well. Unfortunately, not everyone has such a keen eye for potential."
It's a reaction at odds with so much of Astarion's demeanour so far, like a glimpse at a real person underneath all the bored resentment and shitty remarks.
Bull makes a contemplative huffing noise that sounds a little like his namesake. "Hm. Might be time for a career change, then," he says. Well-meaning, yes, and maybe also willing to piss Astarion off if it gets him to elaborate on that complicated boss shit from earlier. "It's a big world, you know."
If they were home, he might try and steal this guy for the Chargers. Probably he wouldn't hack the adventure of it all, or Skinner would knife him, and he really would be better off under Leliana or Josie. But the Chargers have more than once been someone's temporary way out, a way to earn a living when everything else seems dire. He misses having that to offer people as much as he misses the guys themselves.
'A big world', he says, and Astarion scowls, attitude coming crashing down from its high peak. It's only a big world for people who aren't him. Bull can't possibly know his ridiculously specific circumstances, but Astarion snaps at him anyway, "Smaller than you think."
He pauses, irritation subsiding slightly (slightly.) "If it were so easy to make a change, I don't imagine either of us would be here."
"Hey, once I save up the coin and find a portal mage who isn't a pathetic asshole, I'm outta here," Bull says, unsympathetic. "Only guy who can get your shit together is you."
That's not very enabling of his victim complex of you, Bull!! So, obviously, he doesn't like it at all. "You don't know anything about my shit," he bites, as if that isn't an objectively ridiculous and childish thing to say.
Another long moment passes, wherein he seems to think better of throwing a tantrum. "Where are you going to go, then, that's going to magically make your life better?"
"My life was fine, before I ended up in this sack-of-crap city," Bull mutters. And then he sighs. Flicks a glance to Astarion. Still wet and handsome and completely untrustworthy.
But fuck it. Coming from some other world isn't such a wild concept, right? People know about the Ten Hells or however many Hells there are. Probably Astarion can't sell this information for money.
"So far what I've read says I need a spell called Gate to get home. Or maybe Plane Shift, book wasn't clear. Mage shit?" Overenunciating the consonants. "Not my area. Point is, I'm going back to my world. Where people don't call me a tiefling barbarian like that's not double-barrel offensive."
Bull starts talking about 'mage shit' and Astarion sort of zones out. He can't say he really knows what Gate or Plane Shift do, although he thinks he can suss out the basics from name alone. What, he thinks he needs to go to another plane to return home? Gods, he's really going to lose it if Bull turns out to be some religious nutcase who wants to 'return home' to the Ethereal Plane.
"You are a tiefling barbarian," he replies, offensively.
Bull is gonna push him back in the tank and leave him there. "I'm a qunari blood reaver," he growls, stung. Annoyed enough that he's just gonna own qunari even though that's actually a whole complicated identity mess for him.
Wow! Neither of those things mean anything to him. But he's hardly up to date on culture these days.
"Right," he says, sounding skeptical. "And tumari"—he means 'qunari'—"are... what, some sort of offshoot of the tieflings? I can't keep up with all of these racial tensions nowadays."
Bull folds his big arms, having significant regrets about being honest. "Closer to what you guys call dragonborn," he says grumpily, which is obviously ridiculous, there isn't a scale on him. But he doesn't wanna be associated with the race who are supposed to come from demons. Some prejudices run deep, even if he's been learning the hard way that it's a prejudice oft-shared in Faerun.
A deep sigh. He can easily imagine Astarion gossiping to one of the other guild members with malicious delight, Iron Bull thinks he's a dragon from another plane. "Aw, forget it," he says, and starts to ease himself up. "C'mon, gotta be getting dark soon. Let's find an exit near the beach."
Bull describes himself as a dragonborn, and Astarion stares blankly. There's an obvious disappointment in his voice, as if Astarion has done something wrong by not knowing what this ridiculous, made-up word 'qunari' is. And they'd been having a nice conversation beforehand—at least by Astarion's standards, considering most of his interactions with people are deeply unpleasant.
He scowls. "Fine. I was only asking to be polite."
Astarion has never done anything to be polite in his life, but he starts off down the tunnel anyway, arms crossed. A full five minutes of silence pass before he says, "And this plane you claim to be from." Still dubious! "What plane is that, exactly?"
Bull fully expects they're gonna be ignoring each other until he finds a stormwater drain to turn off into, so the question catches him off guard a little.
"Uh," he says. "I don't really get all that stuff." Planes. Hells. Planets. Whatever. He's been reading about it obsessively and it mostly makes him feel really actually stupid, instead of just pretending so people underestimate him. "I lived in a land called Thedas, bigger than Faerun. Had a problem with rifts for a while. Fell through one." Said flatly, not trying to evoke pity or even coax Astarion into believing him, though it is kind of nice just to finally tell someone. "That was a few months ago."
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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.
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"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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But then he relents, leans back on one hand, sprawling out a little. "Let's play a game. I'll make three statements. Two are true, and one's a lie. Then you gotta pick the lie."
He's been trying to get this started in the Guild — it's a good way to learn information about the world that people think is obvious, pick up gossip and who knows who, since people usually choose to tell some salacious lie about someone they know and think you don't.
For example, "Uktar doesn't have a nose under that mask," he says, scratching his horn. "Blushing Mermaid sells bottles of something called scrangle, aaaand, uh, it's a full moon tomorrow night."
Plus it's a good way to trick people into thinking you have an obvious tell, so you can thrash them at Wicked Grace later. Or whatever people here call Wicked Grace.
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Why would he want to play some childish game to pass the time? They've already talked more than he would like as is. They can just wait it out in boring silence—
Astarion's eyebrow twitches. A trick it might be, but he's fairly certain he's cued into one of Bull's giveaways, and he tilts his chin up a little, pleased at the prospect of winning. Even at something as admittedly idiotic as this.
"...Uktar, obviously." Said with the offhandedness of someone who's pretending he doesn't care about this dumb game, but who will absolutely be annoyed if it turns out he's wrong. "If he were lacking a nose, they'd call him some ridiculous nickname like No-Nose or Flat-Face."
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He's pretty pleased himself, that Astarion is playing along with his 'idiotic games' instead of acting like a bored kid. "One point to you. Your turn. C'mon, hit me with some hot gossip."
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"Well," he says, needing very little encouragement to descend into gossip, "I'm fairly certain our illustrious guildmaster has, ah, enjoyed the private company of some of her bodyguards. Oh, and that Zenovia isn't just a member of the Rivington Rats, she is a wererat! Mmmm, and Bad Twin Bubbins smells."
He might have forgotten that the point of the game isn't just to slander people.
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And Astarion's good enough at this that he couldn't pick the lie just based on his face. Which is fun, really, that he doesn't have to let him win just so the game keeps going. Also a little unnerving, and the part of his brain that looks at every situation like he's a spy in enemy territory makes some adjustments.
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...Honestly, kind of weird!! He's never met a person who didn't know about wererats before. They're like a common urban pest, really. Astarion squints for a moment, his own brain making a few adjustments— and then he shrugs.
"Mmm, but I don't think Zenovia is one," he admits. "She doesn't have that twitchy sort of look."
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He sucks his teeth a moment in a tsk, annoyed with himself. "Well, point to me." Points are more fun when there's drinks, of course, or some kind of wager, but he isn't wasting gold on either of those at the moment.
Fucking wererats.
"Okay. The guy who lives in that big tower above the mage shop, Lorroakan, he's a faker. Lady Flux is allergic to most flowers. Aaaand," he itches his horn again idly. "Nine-Fingers' real name is Bethany."
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"It's, ah—" He waffles, uncertain. So, he can't quite remember what her real name is, but it's definitely not Bethany. "Alice, or something of that like." Close enough.
He's contemplative for a moment, debating whether he should say anything. Then: "Has anyone ever told you that you have a tell?" Bull really got him hook, line, and sinker with this one.
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Incorrigible. Absolutely remorseless, too. Kinda likes that Astarion is telling him, though. He'd consider honesty in return if he didn't think it would swing bad on him. "What is it?"
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"Here's a truth for you," he says, still bright-eyed. "Whoever has got you playing errand boy is wasting your real skills. You should be spying for — what's it here, the Patriars? Yeah. Fuck. Raking in coin doing political espionage."
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"I do have the makings of success, don't I?"
It's clear that he believes that, too, believes that he's overqualified for this menial nonsense. It's also clear that no one else has ever seemed to share the sentiment, given the look of surprise-slash-delight in his eyes.
The look dulls a moment later, though, and he kicks at nothing on the floor. Bitterly: "Well. Unfortunately, not everyone has such a keen eye for potential."
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Bull makes a contemplative huffing noise that sounds a little like his namesake. "Hm. Might be time for a career change, then," he says. Well-meaning, yes, and maybe also willing to piss Astarion off if it gets him to elaborate on that complicated boss shit from earlier. "It's a big world, you know."
If they were home, he might try and steal this guy for the Chargers. Probably he wouldn't hack the adventure of it all, or Skinner would knife him, and he really would be better off under Leliana or Josie. But the Chargers have more than once been someone's temporary way out, a way to earn a living when everything else seems dire. He misses having that to offer people as much as he misses the guys themselves.
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He pauses, irritation subsiding slightly (slightly.) "If it were so easy to make a change, I don't imagine either of us would be here."
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Another long moment passes, wherein he seems to think better of throwing a tantrum. "Where are you going to go, then, that's going to magically make your life better?"
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But fuck it. Coming from some other world isn't such a wild concept, right? People know about the Ten Hells or however many Hells there are. Probably Astarion can't sell this information for money.
"So far what I've read says I need a spell called Gate to get home. Or maybe Plane Shift, book wasn't clear. Mage shit?" Overenunciating the consonants. "Not my area. Point is, I'm going back to my world. Where people don't call me a tiefling barbarian like that's not double-barrel offensive."
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"You are a tiefling barbarian," he replies, offensively.
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"Right," he says, sounding skeptical. "And tumari"—he means 'qunari'—"are... what, some sort of offshoot of the tieflings? I can't keep up with all of these racial tensions nowadays."
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A deep sigh. He can easily imagine Astarion gossiping to one of the other guild members with malicious delight, Iron Bull thinks he's a dragon from another plane. "Aw, forget it," he says, and starts to ease himself up. "C'mon, gotta be getting dark soon. Let's find an exit near the beach."
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He scowls. "Fine. I was only asking to be polite."
Astarion has never done anything to be polite in his life, but he starts off down the tunnel anyway, arms crossed. A full five minutes of silence pass before he says, "And this plane you claim to be from." Still dubious! "What plane is that, exactly?"
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"Uh," he says. "I don't really get all that stuff." Planes. Hells. Planets. Whatever. He's been reading about it obsessively and it mostly makes him feel really actually stupid, instead of just pretending so people underestimate him. "I lived in a land called Thedas, bigger than Faerun. Had a problem with rifts for a while. Fell through one." Said flatly, not trying to evoke pity or even coax Astarion into believing him, though it is kind of nice just to finally tell someone. "That was a few months ago."
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