'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."
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.
"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."
"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."
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."
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."
"Running?" Astarion barks a laugh, just a little too shrill to be as casual and uncaring as he wants to be. "Hardly. I'm... sauntering attractively away, at worst."
Click. The lock gives way, and he turns over his shoulder to look at Bull. A qunari blood reaver, hm? Still looks like a yolked tiefling to him, but he doesn't say so.
"Perhaps I'm just interested in a change of scenery." But that isn't the sort of thing that will make someone want to take on a liability like him, so he adds, "And perhaps I'm only curious because I could lend a helping hand, if I were so inclined. I do know every nook and cranny and questionable arcane artist in this city."
He does, but that doesn't mean he knows how to get Bull—or himself—onto another plane of existence. Even if he did, it would probably cost coin he doesn't have.
"...But if you're not interested in having a tagalong, I'm sure you'll have a lovely future here. As a tiefling barbarian."
"Oh, I'm going home," Bull disagrees with a grin. He's saving coin fanatically, he's certain with enough money and power nothing will stand in his way. "As for a tagalong, I'll think about it." Let Astarion squirm just a little, it's good for him.
But there's something else. "Stay there a second," he says reaching to touch the door lightly and keep Astarion from opening it, "Lemme- can I fix your hair?" Because he's about to take the lead on dealing with these smugglers and he looks like — well, like he got slime in his hair and then washed it out in a tank. It's drying curly.
'I'll think about it'—Astarion does squirm, although he tries not to. Bull is probably crazy, anyway. There's no such thing as Thedas or Skyhold. He's just some insane tiefling with a chip on his shoulder. After all, nothing that good could ever happen to Astarion.
He doesn't respond to that, at least, but Bull's question has him double-taking. "What's wrong with my hair?" Tread very fucking carefully.
"Just lemme fix it," Bull says — he's really not a touch without permission guy, but he gestures expressively to the side of Astarion's head, "You wanna go out there with it all...?"
"All what?" Astarion demands, growing horrified. He couldn't see his hair if he wanted to, given the lack of reflection, but he reaches up to touch it self-consciously. Has he looked like a fool this entire time, and Bull just didn't say anything?
Asshole. He drops his hand, teeth grinding slightly. "Well. Go on, then. And be quick about it."
Bull snorts softly, and his big fingers slide into Astarion's hair, detangle a particularly egregiously slime-stuck lock by rubbing it between his fingertips until it separates. Then he fingercombs the whole lot up into something a little more like how Astarion had looked when they met.
"There," he says, giving Astarion a friendly slap on the shoulder to conclude. "Back to perfection. Let's do this, then; I'll follow your lead, boss." Not that Astarion is actually his boss, but he can play the thug for the next twenty minutes while they pick up this delivery.
Astarion is very focused on everything Bull's hands are doing to his hair, not just because he's always hyperaware of being touched—although that is, of course, part of it—but because he actually has no idea if he's making it look better or worse. This could very well be an attempt to make him look like an idiot in front of whatever hardened mercenaries are delivering Cazador's shipment. Some sort of strange power play. Bull doesn't exactly seem the type, but then again, everyone is the type when it comes down to it.
The slap to his shoulder gets an unamused look, because obviously, Astarion isn't the type of person who engages in congenial physical contact with others. His shoulders are sharp, actually, like metaphorical porcupine quills.
"Just stand there and look menacing," he says dismissively, slipping through the door and up a ladder before he very carefully cracks open the hatch leading to the outside world, checking for sunlight before he crawls out onto the streets of Baldur's Gate.
It's not far to the water, and Astarion clearly knows the above-ground parts of the Gate better than some alleged plane-shifter, so he takes point and starts walking once Bull's horns peek out. "These types of people"—said with a vaguely prejudicial tone—"usually try to cheat me." It's a whole fucking thing, considering that he really can't afford to get cheated. "Mm, but perhaps if you stand in the back with your arms crossed threateningly, they'll think twice."
"They fucking better," Bull says to that. He's fine with being the muscle — probably good he lost the armour, the tits and tattoos have a more intimidating vibe.
He's also really good at following half a pace behind, for some reason, just letting Astarion lead them down to the cove where the ship's come in, his gaze searching the hollows of the grey cliffs and the fisherman's trash along the shore for signs of an ambush.
"Sentry archer on the cliffs," he says, low, as they get closer. "He's picked a bad spot, though, he'll need to climb down to get a bead on us, so long as you stay near the prow." And even with the moon waxing near to full as she rises over the horizon, it's dark down here on the western beach. Good chance he'll miss his first shot, and Bull can close the distance in the time it takes him to reload.
Good! Bull knows his role is to have his tits out and look like he could smash heads if the need arises. Astarion glances briefly up in the way that Bull has indicated, then back down. Of course there's an archer on the cliffs. This couldn't just be easy.
The ship itself is manned by a duo of tieflings, and Astarion rolls his eyes and groans when he sees them. "If it isn't my favorite low-grade criminals," he scoffs under his breath. Clearly, he's worked with them before, and there's no love lost there. They seem to have a similar reaction upon seeing him, a shared look that says great, this guy.
"Greetings, gentlemen," he calls, faux-politely, as they approach.
The bigger and brawnier of the duo, presumably the leader, just frowns as his gaze slides behind Astarion and sticks on Bull. "We were told there'd be one person picking up."
Astarion glances behind himself for a quick second, then— "Oh, him? Pretend he isn't there. He just got antsy, you know, and if I didn't let him come along I fear he'd be cracking skulls on the streets." A smile. "But he doesn't bite!"
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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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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.
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"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?"
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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."
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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."
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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."
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Click. The lock gives way, and he turns over his shoulder to look at Bull. A qunari blood reaver, hm? Still looks like a yolked tiefling to him, but he doesn't say so.
"Perhaps I'm just interested in a change of scenery." But that isn't the sort of thing that will make someone want to take on a liability like him, so he adds, "And perhaps I'm only curious because I could lend a helping hand, if I were so inclined. I do know every nook and cranny and questionable arcane artist in this city."
He does, but that doesn't mean he knows how to get Bull—or himself—onto another plane of existence. Even if he did, it would probably cost coin he doesn't have.
"...But if you're not interested in having a tagalong, I'm sure you'll have a lovely future here. As a tiefling barbarian."
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But there's something else. "Stay there a second," he says reaching to touch the door lightly and keep Astarion from opening it, "Lemme- can I fix your hair?" Because he's about to take the lead on dealing with these smugglers and he looks like — well, like he got slime in his hair and then washed it out in a tank. It's drying curly.
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He doesn't respond to that, at least, but Bull's question has him double-taking. "What's wrong with my hair?" Tread very fucking carefully.
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Asshole. He drops his hand, teeth grinding slightly. "Well. Go on, then. And be quick about it."
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"There," he says, giving Astarion a friendly slap on the shoulder to conclude. "Back to perfection. Let's do this, then; I'll follow your lead, boss." Not that Astarion is actually his boss, but he can play the thug for the next twenty minutes while they pick up this delivery.
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The slap to his shoulder gets an unamused look, because obviously, Astarion isn't the type of person who engages in congenial physical contact with others. His shoulders are sharp, actually, like metaphorical porcupine quills.
"Just stand there and look menacing," he says dismissively, slipping through the door and up a ladder before he very carefully cracks open the hatch leading to the outside world, checking for sunlight before he crawls out onto the streets of Baldur's Gate.
It's not far to the water, and Astarion clearly knows the above-ground parts of the Gate better than some alleged plane-shifter, so he takes point and starts walking once Bull's horns peek out. "These types of people"—said with a vaguely prejudicial tone—"usually try to cheat me." It's a whole fucking thing, considering that he really can't afford to get cheated. "Mm, but perhaps if you stand in the back with your arms crossed threateningly, they'll think twice."
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He's also really good at following half a pace behind, for some reason, just letting Astarion lead them down to the cove where the ship's come in, his gaze searching the hollows of the grey cliffs and the fisherman's trash along the shore for signs of an ambush.
"Sentry archer on the cliffs," he says, low, as they get closer. "He's picked a bad spot, though, he'll need to climb down to get a bead on us, so long as you stay near the prow." And even with the moon waxing near to full as she rises over the horizon, it's dark down here on the western beach. Good chance he'll miss his first shot, and Bull can close the distance in the time it takes him to reload.
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The ship itself is manned by a duo of tieflings, and Astarion rolls his eyes and groans when he sees them. "If it isn't my favorite low-grade criminals," he scoffs under his breath. Clearly, he's worked with them before, and there's no love lost there. They seem to have a similar reaction upon seeing him, a shared look that says great, this guy.
"Greetings, gentlemen," he calls, faux-politely, as they approach.
The bigger and brawnier of the duo, presumably the leader, just frowns as his gaze slides behind Astarion and sticks on Bull. "We were told there'd be one person picking up."
Astarion glances behind himself for a quick second, then— "Oh, him? Pretend he isn't there. He just got antsy, you know, and if I didn't let him come along I fear he'd be cracking skulls on the streets." A smile. "But he doesn't bite!"
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