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.
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."
"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.
Astarion says bankrolling and Bull scoff-snorts loudly but lets him continue. "I have leads," he promises. "Not that Vashedan-lok Lorroakan, but the diabolist knows a guy who can do high level casting." He'll chase that up.
A pause. Astarion seems like he's about to split. "There's people after that gold," Bull says seriously, not bothering to dance around it. "Let's do this fast. And if you're gonna go say your goodbyes, you'd better be lying about where you're going." Once the magic's done and he's gone he wants Thedas to be nothing but a nonsense word to anyone in Baldur's Gate.
'There's people after that gold', Bull says, and Astarion resists the urge to roll his eyes and say duh!!!
"Unfortunate. I was really hoping to take things slow, get to know each other first—" He crosses his arms. "Obviously, we'll do it fast." He doesn't believe in doing things any other way.
Admittedly, he's not sure how all this casting business works, or if 'fast' is going to drag out into weeks of nonsense. It still seems prudent to try to push things along as quickly as they'll go regardless; the longer he's scheming with some tiefling—er, qunari—the more time Cazador has to figure out and thwart his plans.
Oh, he'll be so furious when Astarion is gone. A pity that he won't be around to watch the impotent rage spread across his old master's face.
"As for the rest, you certainly don't have to worry about me blabbering." Who would he tell, his so-called siblings? Ugh. He scratches his chin absentmindedly, considering their next steps. "I suppose I can try to get away tomorrow evening." He'll have to concoct some lie. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Do," agrees Bull. "I've got an afternoon job, but I'll be back here by sunset." He's keeping in mind Astarion's allergy, which he assumes is the other reason why he has to do a lot of the legwork. "Anyone bothers you about the beach, send them to me." He feels pretty confident in Astarion's ability to lie about it, which is also why he doesn't bother asking for the gold.
No further plans or pleasantries needed; he sees Astarion out. There's an echo of those cool fingers still in his palm, a low-boiling excitement that they might really be able to do this. It makes the people around him seem less real somehow, a dream he's planning to end soon. The kind of compartmentalization he used to be real good at back on Seheron.
Not long after Astarion leaves, he heads out to the Devil's Fee. He's spoken to the diabolist there before, though he hadn't been honest about his intended destination of travel. Got the impression she cared more about money than just about anything in the world. This time he's slightly more candid, and Helsik writes him an eye-watering price list in her elegant scrawl.
'Sending' to Blackstaff Tower Bursar — 50 GP 1 'Sending' to Archmage Mordenkainen — 250 GP 2 Tuning fork — 250 GP + object from destination plane. Scroll of Plane Shift — 5,000 GP Custom portal (ritually cast) — 30,000 GP + tuned fork.
Willing to talk discounted prices in exchange for a spot of work or ongoing access to the plane.
1 He owes me a favour and can ask the teaching staff if anybody wants to teleport to the Gate for work. Negotiating cost with whoever comes is up to you. 2 If he's even in Faerûn. Won't want gold, either, he'll send you off on some mad jaunt to balance the universe.
When Astarion returns the next evening, Bull's seated at the chair and table in his room even though they're laughably too small for him. He's got the note out atop some of the books he's collected about planar travel, next to a bowl of water and some bandages, stitching up a nasty cut on the back of his forearm as he considers their situation. "It's open."
It takes a little past sundown for Astarion to show back up at the Mermaid. It isn't the first time he's lied to Cazador's face, but the megalomaniac is so paranoid that it wouldn't matter how good of a liar he is; every statement gets questioned regardless, and he finds himself bending over backwards to convince Cazador that he does, in fact, have plans with another potential victim tonight.
The whole interaction puts him in a bit of a mood, and he enters Bull's room with a frown. "Have you ever heard of manners?" Rude of him not to greet Astarion at the door.
He takes in the sight with a quick scan—books, note, bandages—and strolls across the room to pick up the list between his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, that's cute. You made this to prank me, hmm?"
"My handwriting's not that pretty," Bull says flatly, pulling the last stitch tight without a wince.
"And I don't trust her," he adds, eye-watering prices aside — gold can be negotiated. But the problem with people who will do anything for money is that 'anything' includes screwing you. "We bring her in, let her make her own fork, and then you know she'll be more than happy to take the same payments again to bring over anyone who might be interested in chasing us." He doesn't know what Astarion's specific deal is, but his boss' reputation is 'rich, powerful, scary' as far as he can tell. Bull's primary concern is that she'd sell Thedas' abundant resources to the highest bidder and there'd be a new threat for the Inquisition to deal with, but he's at least aware Astarion isn't going to care about that.
Bull is right to think so; Astarion wouldn't care about that. What he does care about is the prospect of someone being able to chase him down even on an alternate plane—that positively, absolutely cannot be allowed to happen. The image of being dragged back to Faerûn kicking and screaming runs through his mind, and he holds the list with such force that it wrinkles.
"Now there's a fork involved?"
Obviously, he doesn't know much about this kind of magic. If there's some material component like that, though, it stands to reason that it can't be left behind to be sold to whoever comes sniffing around asking for them.
"—We'll just get our own, then. How hard can it be to make one?"
Bull shrugs, gestures vaguely to the list. "Hard enough she was gonna charge for that too." He truly has no idea, even with all his reading, the intersection of magic and the economy is not exactly his strong point.
"Maybe we come up with a message for her mage friends, see if we can fish up a second opinion?" Bull suggests. "Unless you have Circle contacts." Bull wipes off his arm and then bandages it neatly, expression still a little grim. At least this time it's not Astarion he's pissed at. "Or you wanna rob the Counting House."
"Mm," Astarion says as he sets down the list. This is a hell of an unsatisfactory twist; two thousand gold is more than he's had in ages, and he'd been so sure that it would be enough to get him out of here for good. Of course, he hadn't thought through the plan any further than that, and now it's biting him in the ass.
"I might know of somewhere that I could get more coin." He taps his fingernails on the table. "But things would have to move with, ah, expedience after that."
"Okay," Bull nods, making a mental timeline. He can do the Sending with his own coin to try and hook a wizard, shop around for someone else to make the tuning fork that won't understand its possibilities... and Astarion can do his thing. "What kinda turnaround are we talking here? What would you need?"
"Er." A pause. Some more anxious tapping on the wood of the table. "Well." He waffles for a moment, then admits, "I don't know yet. I only just thought of it now."
He's not even entirely sure if it's possible; he'd thought many times about stealing from Cazador, but never with any seriousness. The consequences were always too dire, and too assured. One way or another, he'd be found out, and he'd pay the price tenfold.
But if he can get out of the city—and this entire plane—quickly enough, maybe he won't have to.
"I happen to know someone with a rather sizeable vault in the Counting House." He assumes. Astarion's never actually gotten to see the inside of it, but Cazador loves money more than almost anything else in this world. "We would need the key, of course."
And he has no fucking clue where that is. The chamberlain, Dufay, might; he takes care of so many of Cazador's errands. He'd never tell Astarion its location, but perhaps someone else might be able to catch a glimpse of it— "How do you feel about a little light acting?"
Astarion looks on edge just raising this, which doesn't bode great, but then, he is talking about a pretty big job. Bull had only kinda been joking about the Counting House. But the size of their crimes won't matter once they're gone.
Just so long as Astarion doesn't take the money and leave him to take the fall.
"I feel great about a little light acting," Bull says with a shrug.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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!"
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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.
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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."
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"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.
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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."
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"—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.
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"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."
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"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."
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"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?"
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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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A pause. Astarion seems like he's about to split. "There's people after that gold," Bull says seriously, not bothering to dance around it. "Let's do this fast. And if you're gonna go say your goodbyes, you'd better be lying about where you're going." Once the magic's done and he's gone he wants Thedas to be nothing but a nonsense word to anyone in Baldur's Gate.
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"Unfortunate. I was really hoping to take things slow, get to know each other first—" He crosses his arms. "Obviously, we'll do it fast." He doesn't believe in doing things any other way.
Admittedly, he's not sure how all this casting business works, or if 'fast' is going to drag out into weeks of nonsense. It still seems prudent to try to push things along as quickly as they'll go regardless; the longer he's scheming with some tiefling—er, qunari—the more time Cazador has to figure out and thwart his plans.
Oh, he'll be so furious when Astarion is gone. A pity that he won't be around to watch the impotent rage spread across his old master's face.
"As for the rest, you certainly don't have to worry about me blabbering." Who would he tell, his so-called siblings? Ugh. He scratches his chin absentmindedly, considering their next steps. "I suppose I can try to get away tomorrow evening." He'll have to concoct some lie. It wouldn't be the first time.
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No further plans or pleasantries needed; he sees Astarion out. There's an echo of those cool fingers still in his palm, a low-boiling excitement that they might really be able to do this. It makes the people around him seem less real somehow, a dream he's planning to end soon. The kind of compartmentalization he used to be real good at back on Seheron.
Not long after Astarion leaves, he heads out to the Devil's Fee. He's spoken to the diabolist there before, though he hadn't been honest about his intended destination of travel. Got the impression she cared more about money than just about anything in the world. This time he's slightly more candid, and Helsik writes him an eye-watering price list in her elegant scrawl.
When Astarion returns the next evening, Bull's seated at the chair and table in his room even though they're laughably too small for him. He's got the note out atop some of the books he's collected about planar travel, next to a bowl of water and some bandages, stitching up a nasty cut on the back of his forearm as he considers their situation. "It's open."
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The whole interaction puts him in a bit of a mood, and he enters Bull's room with a frown. "Have you ever heard of manners?" Rude of him not to greet Astarion at the door.
He takes in the sight with a quick scan—books, note, bandages—and strolls across the room to pick up the list between his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, that's cute. You made this to prank me, hmm?"
30,000 gold pieces. That's insane.
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"And I don't trust her," he adds, eye-watering prices aside — gold can be negotiated. But the problem with people who will do anything for money is that 'anything' includes screwing you. "We bring her in, let her make her own fork, and then you know she'll be more than happy to take the same payments again to bring over anyone who might be interested in chasing us." He doesn't know what Astarion's specific deal is, but his boss' reputation is 'rich, powerful, scary' as far as he can tell. Bull's primary concern is that she'd sell Thedas' abundant resources to the highest bidder and there'd be a new threat for the Inquisition to deal with, but he's at least aware Astarion isn't going to care about that.
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"Now there's a fork involved?"
Obviously, he doesn't know much about this kind of magic. If there's some material component like that, though, it stands to reason that it can't be left behind to be sold to whoever comes sniffing around asking for them.
"—We'll just get our own, then. How hard can it be to make one?"
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"Maybe we come up with a message for her mage friends, see if we can fish up a second opinion?" Bull suggests. "Unless you have Circle contacts." Bull wipes off his arm and then bandages it neatly, expression still a little grim. At least this time it's not Astarion he's pissed at. "Or you wanna rob the Counting House."
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"I might know of somewhere that I could get more coin." He taps his fingernails on the table. "But things would have to move with, ah, expedience after that."
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He's not even entirely sure if it's possible; he'd thought many times about stealing from Cazador, but never with any seriousness. The consequences were always too dire, and too assured. One way or another, he'd be found out, and he'd pay the price tenfold.
But if he can get out of the city—and this entire plane—quickly enough, maybe he won't have to.
"I happen to know someone with a rather sizeable vault in the Counting House." He assumes. Astarion's never actually gotten to see the inside of it, but Cazador loves money more than almost anything else in this world. "We would need the key, of course."
And he has no fucking clue where that is. The chamberlain, Dufay, might; he takes care of so many of Cazador's errands. He'd never tell Astarion its location, but perhaps someone else might be able to catch a glimpse of it— "How do you feel about a little light acting?"
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Just so long as Astarion doesn't take the money and leave him to take the fall.
"I feel great about a little light acting," Bull says with a shrug.
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