nibbling | open post pt. 2.

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!"

Bull's lip curls, showing his blunt teeth as if to demonstrate what he doesn't bite with. It isn't really a smile. He doesn't otherwise react — in fact, he isn't really interested in the deal, keeping his attention on the tieflings' body language, his peripheral surroundings, calculating his options for if they have to kill these guys.

There's a tense moment where nobody says anything, and then the smaller tiefling glances into the dark somewhere over Bull's shoulder (reassuring himself that they still have the greater numbers) and elbows the other, who nods reluctantly, still trying to stare down bull a little. Probably used to being the biggest tiefling in the room.

He moves out of the torchlight a moment towards where their boat is pushed into the sand, comes back with the goods in hand, some little gilded chest with whatever ancient treasure Cazador has sought to purchase.

"Two thousand," says the big tiefling. And here's where the quibble comes.

Any under the table deal in the city negotiated through the Guild makes sure a percentage of the trade's value is paid as dues, and in return no member of the Guild will nick off with either side's take. The patriars allow it because it means most merchants find it cheaper and safer to just pay the taxes that allow for legal import.

Typically both sides settle their debts separately, after the trade is complete. On this occasion, Cazador has already agreed to pay both sides' share in advance (the kind of suspiciously thoughtful gesture that gets repaid by Nine-Fingers sending Bull to tag along.) To repay Cazador, the smugglers were supposed to reduce the price of the goods.

All that to say: Astarion is only holding eighteen hundred of his master's gold.

Astarion hesitates, but only for a split second. If there's anything he's learned in the world, it's that one should never show weakness, and hesitation is surely that. His eyebrow twitches as he pulls his pack off his shoulder, the bag still slightly damp.

He could call them out for cheating. That's never worked before, and he doubts it'll work now. He absolutely can't return to the palace without whatever ridiculous and gaudy artifact Cazador has determined he needs, and especially not to beg for more coin. His gaze flicks quickly from the tiefling before him to the archer on the cliff and then, exceptionally briefly, to Bull behind him.

"Two thousand," Astarion says, confidently reaching into his pack and pulling out a heavy coin purse. "It's all right here, of course."

He holds the pouch out, expression painted on. Just take it, he begs, internally. Don't fucking check it.

All the same, his free hand grazes the sheath of his dagger.

The guy takes the heavy purse and tosses it to the smaller of the two, who immediately pulls open the string to bite a coin with a grin, weighing the purse in his hand, eyeing the size. It's exaggerated — can he really tell the amount in there just from the size and weight? More likely this is a touch up, especially with how smirkingly amiable they both are:

"I said two thousand," says the bigger one. "You're a little short, mate."

"Must be a mix-up with the Guild. I'll cover the difference," Bull says immediately, stepping forward. He reaches a big hand into his pants pocket, and pulls out his own coin pouch, with a familiar jingle that has the tiefling's eyes light up at an easy mark. Presumably this is exactly what they were hoping for, to scrounge an extra bit of coin out of the courier. So he's willingly handing over the little gilded chest to Astarion, job done, when Bull takes another step around and between the two, like he's dancing, picks up the smaller one, and with a noise like a "Hyaargh," uses his horned tiefling head to club the other. Blood and gold spills everywhere.

Gods below.

Hot, fresh blood splatters on his face and Astarion visibly flinches—not because the violence perturbs him or even because he finds the blood disgusting, but because he wants it so badly that being this close to a fresh source of it practically makes him weak in the knees. He stands there for a moment, mind gone blank, before everything starts up again—

The littler tiefling shouts, hands on Bull's face, going for the eyes as any good scrappy criminal should. Meanwhile, the bigger one looks dazed and potentially brain-damaged, blood pouring out of his head at an alarming rate. Astarion, during all this chaos, crouches down and starts scrambling for red-streaked gold pieces.

An arrow whizzes by, embedding itself in the ground between them. Bull was right—the archer's first shot misses. Astarion's not so confident about the second one missing, so he stuffs the gold—still bloody—into his pack and grabs the gilded chest. Fuck, it's heavy. Struggling a little, he stands, holding the chest to him as he says, "Well, it was nice meeting you, Bronco—"

The little tiefling scratches wildly at Bull's face.

"But it looks like you have things covered here, so ta-ta!"

Things are a little too chaotic for him to give a shit about Astarion in the heat of the moment - and it's a hot fucking moment. Bull only has one functioning eye, and he growls like a beast when it's scratched at, bites at the guy's hand, shakes him like a ragdoll. Takes an arrow to the bad shoulder with a shout — he's a much bigger target, all lit up with the red glow from ring of pain. But injury only ever makes him deadlier, right up until he's actually dead. A few more hits and he lobs the limp body of the tiefling into the water blindly, and races up the beach to find the archer.

When it's over, he picks his way back with the archer slung over his shoulder to make sure the tieflings are actually dead. Only then does he realize Astarion took his package and two thousand gold. "Vash-vartaar," he murmurs throatily, pissed.

There's a couple of coins Astarion missed — he picks those up and puts them in the big tiefling's pack, shaking down the bodies for whatever else he can get before tossing them into their boat and pushing it out into the water. The third one has already washed away — or maybe swam, it's that kind of fucking day.

The pack goes over the shoulder that doesn't have an arrow sticking out of it, and he kicks some sand over the bloodstains. Not the world's best cleanup job, but fuck it. More important to get back to his cheap little rooms at the Mermaid, take a real bath, and, Andraste's tits, try and figure out a report to Nine-Fingers that will still get him paid instead of finding out just how many daggers she's hiding on her person. Maybe stew about snotty little double-crossing elves a while.

Astarion runs home, stuffs the gold underneath a loose floorboard, and prays to all the gods that he doesn't worship that Cazador never, ever finds out about it. He will, of course, because he always does, which means Astarion has no choice but to act fast. Luckily, he has the perfect idea for getting rid of the coin.

Several days pass with neither hide nor hair of him, but that's only because he has no excuse to get away from the palace. The moment he's sent out hunting, he stuffs the coin purse back in his pack and heads out—not to his usual haunts, where the transient adventurers who won't be miss hang around, but to the stomping grounds of the Gate's low-lifes. Bull stands out, and it only takes a few well-placed questions and a couple coins slid across the table to find out where he's been staying. The night is still young when Astarion raps on the door of his room at the Mermaid, incredibly fucking nervous at what his reaction might be but in too deep to back out now.

Upon Bull answering, he bats his very innocent lashes and says, "I know what you're thinking, but this isn't a wonderful dream."

Bull stares at him with that one grey eye, fists closing tight. But he doesn't like to actually be the thug he plays at so he heaves steadying breaths, presses down the urge to get physical or just slam the door in Astarion's pointy little face.

"You fucked me," he says bluntly. He'd even looked for Astarion, after, thinking maybe he was just shirking the fight out of inexperience and would pop back up with the gold and some self-congratulatory remark. Kept an overly optimistic eye out around the Guild — even as it became clear that Astarion isn't the most popular guy among that crowd.

But hey, here he is, days later.

A glance past him down the corridor and then he steps aside so Astarion can come in, only because he doesn't want to talk about the gold where the kind of people who patronise the Blushing Mermaid might overhear it.

"Mm, no," Astarion replies, keeping his voice as glib as he can manage. If he acts like what he did wasn't a big deal, then maybe he can make Bull think that it wasn't. "If I did that, you'd look much happier."

He steps in, although he lingers near the door for fear that Bull will get angry and clobber him. Although he's been remarkably even-tempered during most of their interactions, the sight of him going full barbarian—er, 'blood reaver'—is fresh in Astarion's mind. Good to stay cautious, just in case.

"Don't be dramatic," he says, waving a hand as if this is all very inconsequential. "I told you that I had matters to attend to."

Bull doesn't even laugh at the sex joke, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded. "Sure. Forgot to mention you were planning to cheat the smugglers." The big sting is feeling like Astarion slipped around all his paranoia and set him up deliberately, created the situation and then left him with blood on his hands and empty pockets. That's a lot of gold to just go missing. And Nine-Fingers had been, beneath the usual bluster, unnervingly concerned that this Szarr guy was gonna come knocking on the Guild's door asking what happened to his goods. So that's his first question: "You make your delivery?"

Astarion holds up a delicate hand. "It was a happy accident." He wouldn't say he planned it, mostly because he doesn't really plan anything. He'd seen an opportunity and took it, and hadn't really cared that it left Bull with his metaphorical pants down.

"—And I'd be an idiot not to have." Gods. Cazador would have been fucking furious, as opposed to his regular simmering disdain. "Don't worry; you won't have any big, bad"—vampires?—"aristocrats coming after you. Today, anyway."

Again, there's a very real chance that Cazador finds out Astarion has (almost) two thousand gold burning a hole in his pocket, and then they really might be fucked. But for the time being, Astarion just smiles pleasantly, privately relieved that Bull isn't trying to smash his skull into the doorframe.

"Don't have such a long face. I did it for us, obviously."

Well. He did it for himself, but Bull is another happy accident, collateral damage that he can use toward his own ends. So, for now: us.

If Astarion isn't lying — and Bull has to keep in mind that he won't be able to tell if he is — then things are maybe not quite as dire as the possibilities that he's been dwelling on. Opportunism, he can forgive. Especially if Astarion is heading towards splitting the gold. He relaxes minutely — but only minutely.

"Yeah? Prove it," Bull challenges him, brows raised. "Because I'm not really seeing what I'm getting out of this, aside from a headache."

Haha. Splitting the gold. That's cute.

"Well," he says, leaning against the wall and looking as nonchalant as he can. Like this means nothing to him, and he can walk out the door without any upset if Bull doesn't take him up on the offer. In reality, he's not sure he can accept any other possibility than 'yes'. This is his first glimmer of hope—cautious, cynical hope, but hope—in two centuries, and he's not ready to let go of it without leaving claw marks.

"I've been thinking about your predicament," he starts, slowly. "And I've been in the mood to do some charity work, and I thought two thousand gold is surely enough to finance a trip to another world."

See, to Bull this counts as splitting the gold, regardless of how Astarion wants to frame it. He reaches up and scratches his jaw, blinking. Surprised again — nicer this time.

"You want to ride along." he says slowly. Does Astarion the courtesy of not asking why. All his icy judgement is rapidly thawing, shoulders lowering from around his ears, because yeah, yeah, charity will probably do it, and he's not going to be proud about whose gold it actually is. He has a some savings already, and maybe he can get Uktar to loan him a little coin. Sell that fucking barbarian armour. Every gold piece a bargaining chip to coaxing a wizard to take his ass home.

Home!

Bull levers himself upright and holds out a hand for Astarion to shake, a little intense about it, his eye bright. "I don't mind. But you fuck this up for me, and I'll carry you back to the sewers and drown you in one of those tanks, you get that, right?"

Bull calls him out instantly, and Astarion tries not to look annoyed by how astute he is. Yes, Astarion wants to ride along. He's thought about it a lot over the past few days, and he's not sure he even cares what Skyhold is like—it's not worse than what he's experiencing now. Cazador's commands won't be able to reach him on another plane. He'll be able to do whatever he wants, think and feel whatever he wants, drink from whoever the hells he wants.

It's a win-win, as far as he's concerned.

He looks down at Bull's beefy hand for a moment before taking it in his own and shaking it with all the affected daintiness of a noble. His hands are as uncallused as a noble's, too, and he can feel the temperature difference between them immediately. Astarion's hands are as cold as the dead, and he quickly withdraws his hand.

"Likewise."

Hands on his hips, clearly feeling relieved at Bull's acceptance of his offer: "Well, since I'm bankrolling this event, you'll have to be the boots on the ground. Pull your weight."

Translation: you're going to do all the hard work.

"I have—" He waffles for a moment, visibly displeased that he has anything at all to do besides talk about how he's going to get the fuck out of here. "Personal matters to attend to tonight. But perhaps we might discuss potential leads another night, hm?"

He, of course, expects Bull to come up with said leads.

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