open post pt. 2.

[nibbling]

the other one got too big.

Comments

[taarsidath]

"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.

[nibbling]

"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."

[taarsidath]

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."

[nibbling]

"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.

[taarsidath]

"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?"

[nibbling]

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."

[taarsidath]

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."

[nibbling]

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."

[taarsidath]

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.

[nibbling]

'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."

[taarsidath]

"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."

[nibbling]

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?"

[taarsidath]

"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."

[nibbling]

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.

[taarsidath]

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.

[nibbling]

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."

[taarsidath]

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."

[nibbling]

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?"

[taarsidath]

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."

[nibbling]

Hm.

Honestly, he's skeptical. Cynical, maybe, to assume that it's more likely that Bull is just insane than that there's some other land out there, one that presumably isn't awful, given that Bull is eager to return rather than stick around in Faerûn.

"Sounds..." He trails off. "Farfetched."

And that's all he says on the topic for a couple of minutes. It's obvious that he's still mulling over the idea the entire time, though, because he pipes up again with, "And everyone there is, ah, like you?" Better not say tiefling barbarians, even though that's what he's thinking.

[taarsidath]

"Stacked?" he jokes, clearly cooled off a little in the silence. A pause, not for laughter but to squint down an intersection before taking the other way, and actually answering the question. "Nah, there's other races. Not as many as here. Humans, elves, dwarves." And qunari, obviously. A very short list, comparatively. "Everyone's got their own parts of the country with their own gods and rulers and ways of doing what they do. Some cities are more of a melting pot than others, I guess."

[nibbling]

Mmm. Astarion listens, expression uncharacteristically thoughtful.

"And this place you're going back to—Far Pollen, was it?" He's not that thoughtful, though. "What's the way of doing things like there?"

[taarsidath]

"Forget Par Vollen," Bull says, deciding not to take that mispronunciation too seriously - not like people back home tend to have a solid understanding of qunari either, and that's worked out for him plenty of times. No, Astarion keeps raising this, he's interested. "That's just where I was born. I'm going back to Skyhold."

Ah shit, what can he even say about Skyhold. They stop at another locked door, and while Astarion picks it he tries to do his best to explain the transient magic of what's happening there. "It's a fortress built into a mountain," he says. "Over an old elvish site. People all over Thedas have been gathering to this one place, as part of the Inquisition — big rag-tag army trying to close up all the rifts I mentioned. Not just warriors, though, we got craftsmen, bureaucrats, treasure hunters, nobles, tailors, farriers, spies. Some people think the Inquisitor's some kinda divine chosen being, some people follow 'cause it's a heroic cause. Personally, I just like getting paid."

[nibbling]

Astarion can pick locks and listen at the same time easily, a habit picked up from needing to pay attention for the sound of coming footsteps when sneaking into a place he really shouldn't. He mulls over the thought of Skyhold, which sounds more like a fantasy in a children's fairy tale than a real place.

The religious aspect doesn't appeal at all, but he could throw some lip service to the idea if it meant he would get paid. Surely every ragtag army needs a lockpicker; the sunlight thing would continue to be an issue, but he could solve that problem when he comes to it. Hells, if it's really an Inquisition—a word that doesn't mean much to him, but certainly sounds fancy!—then maybe they could help him with the aforementioned problem.

Trying to sound casual: "And anyone can join and get paid?" The getting paid is important. "You know, provided they have excellent, in-demand skills. Like a rogue, perhaps."

[taarsidath]

There it is. "Sure," Bull agrees. "I head up a mercenary company, and we don't have a rogue. Or our spymistress could use a fresh face to go eavesdrop on some Orlesian parties, find out what the nobility's plotting." All sorts of paid vacancies. Astarion seems green in some ways, but Bull knows skill potential when it lies to his face.

The main problem is getting there, though he's pretty sure the spells he's thinking of can manage more than one person just fine. But there's other considerations. "You wanna tag along, you'll have to tell me eventually what you're running from."