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.
He scratches his chin, thoughtful. It would have been helpful if his partner in crime was a bit more— genteel in appearance. As it stands now, he looks like the most mercenary mercenary who ever mercenaried. "You'll need different clothes than that, obviously."
A plan is coming together, though, or at least vague concepts of things that might look like a plan if you squint hard enough. "You could visit, say you're, ah, I don't know. Investigating a rash of thefts at the Counting House, and you'd just like to confirm the key still belongs to its rightful owner." He waves a hand. "Then you'll report back to me where it is, I'll steal it, and then we'll be drowning in money."
The details are, of course, unimportant. Big picture stuff, here.
"You gonna dress me up?" Bull grimaces. "Orlais ballrooms all over again. Fine." If they can find clothes that fit him, he'll wear them. He can play genteel, when he has to.
This is going to end in a Goddamn Situation. He can feel it creeping up on them. It's there in that airy wave of the hand, a dozen things getting ready to go wrong. Bank security. Aristocratic vengeance. But maybe if they're quick and clever they can get out from under it.
"Sure, let's steal from your asshole boss," Bull says, raises his first question, unfortunately slightly more of a details guy. "What if he's the one holding the key?"
He hasn't the slightest idea what an Orlais is, but Astarion is pleasantly surprised that Bull has ever set foot in a ballroom. Less pleasant is the questioning. "I didn't say it was—" Kind of obvious, though, he supposes. In hindsight.
"Well." He does have to think about that for a moment. Technically, there is a way they could steal it right off of Cazador. He could pretend that Bull is Cazador's next dinner, and then Bull could surprise him enough to grab the key and bolt.
But the chances of Cazador killing him before he got out is high, and then Astarion would be up shit creek without a paddle. "We'll deal with that little bump in the road when we get to it."
Translation: he'd rather stick his head in the sand and not think about it.
"For now, we should focus on the enjoyable parts. You do desperately need a makeover."
There's a variant of this plan where Bull ends up sitting in the cells for however many years until Astarion comes back with a tadpole and some new friends. Not that he realizes the stakes are that high. At worst, he thinks, he'll have to break out of Wyrm's Rock.
Correction: at worst, he's going to get a makeover.
"Shit, okay, if that's what gets you going," Bull says, accepting his fate. He sits himself up some, but he's never had a single moment of insecurity about his body and he's not about to have one now. "If you're putting me in formalwear it's gotta be able to bypass the horns. Or have a stretchy neckline."
"You're hardly the only one around here with horns," Astarion says offhandedly, more worried about finding something that'll fit someone so ridiculously tall and broad than getting it over Bull's head. The head will be the easy part; the chest, he's not so sure of.
Oh, well! It's something exciting to focus on. If he were to buy any new clothing for himself, everyone at home would be instantly suspicious, and his new money would be found out quickly. Bull, though, he can dress up in whatever he likes. So—
"There's a little shop not far from here. I've seen half-orcs in there through the window"—because window-shopping is all he ever really gets to do—"so I'm sure they'll be able to accommodate your, ah." Astarion gestures vaguely in Bull's direction. "Proportions."
"You think?" Bull says, lifting his hands up behind his head, elbows in the air, a shameless little stretch to really show off his proportions.
"I can go let 'em measure me up, but you'll have to pick the outfit. Don't have the eye for that shit." He relaxes back into his seat. "I like pink. And nothing too tight in the pants area, I've got a brace on under this." He slaps his shitty knee with his shitty hand that's missing a bit of finger — however you dress him he's always gonna look like he's been in three swordfights, sorry.
"Mm." Astarion gives him a critical once-over. He supposes some might think there's some rugged charm to this all, but rugged is not really the aim here. Some gloves might be in order. All the better, so Dufay won't be able to see that Bull has the hands of someone who actually works rather than the soft skin of an aristocrat.
"It won't be the easiest task to turn you into an effete gentleman, but unfortunately, it's what we have to work with." Honestly, he's a little more worried about Bull's acting skills. He's very... casual. Most of those banker types are snobby, with sticks lodged so far up their bottoms that it comes out their top.
"Well! The night is still young, so let's get a move on." He snaps his fingers, every bit the spoiled little brat he's expecting Bull to pretend to be. "The sooner we dress you up, the sooner you can be back home in your own bed, snuggling your teddy bear."
"His name's Thaddeus," Bull says of his non-existant teddy bear, and hauls up to his feet. As before, he's fine with letting Astarion think he's in charge — a lack of ego that's probably weirder once it's obvious he's not stupid.
The Mermaid, down at the docks, isn't that far from the gates to the Upper City, just hauling ass up a steep hill. The lights get brighter, Fist patrols a more frequent sight — and flowers, the night-blooming jasmine sweet on the air. Bull stays a half step behind Astarion right up until they're about to reach the tailor's.
"So what's the play here, Tiptoes, am I your charity case? Rent boy?" he asks before they go in. "Impoverished best friend?"
Oh, lovely. That nickname stuck. He briefly wonders if Bull has forgotten his name again.
"I thought I'd say we're twin brothers," he snarks, if only to buy time because he hasn't actually thought of the play at all. "Fraternal, of course."
Hmm. He looks back at Bull, discerning. No offense, but Bull isn't exactly giving 'high class escort', so that one's out. "Perhaps you lost all of your clothes in a horrible fire, and that's why you walk around with your chest out for everyone to see."
That gets him a sidelong look, a quirk of the eyebrow, a blink-and-you'd-miss it flirtation. "My chest's a gift I'm giving the world," he informs Astarion. "But sure, charity case. Have fun with that one."
True to his word, Bull shrinks a little as he enters the shop, some great pall of misery falling over him, broad shoulders hunched in, one hand clutching the strap of his shoulder pauldron like a man who is worried about the last clothes he has in the world. Heavy is the head that wears the horns, etc etc.
Despite this minimizing, Julio Pennygood looks alarmed to see Bull, and very relieved when he also sees there's someone accompanying him, coming over to talk to Astarion immediately. "Welcome, welcome."
Pennygood, being a dwarf, has to crane his neck to look up at Bull's towering form—so he just chooses not to, instead focusing on the much less imposing elf beside him. Astarion looks like he belongs here. In fact, he's window-shopped here countless times, peering in through the glass and coveting the fancy new clothes.
"And what can I do for two men of, er"—a quick glance Bull's way—"luxury?"
"As you can see," Astarion says, gesturing to Bull, "my friend here has just been in a terrible accident." Flatly: "All his shirts, to cinders." Pennygood's eyebrows raise. "Isn't that right?"
"Lost everything in the fire," Bull says dejectedly, affecting noble misery. He touches his bare chest lightly, as if to thank his shirts for their year of service. It's a little hammy, but he has to be, to overcome the way every merchant in the city looks at him and reads thug. He's even adjusted his accent, very slightly; speaking properly it almost sounds like he's come up from Zakhara.
"Nothing but my eyepatch and my sleeping trousers. A man of my stature, it is not easy to find new clothes. At first I thought, tomorrow I will be the laughing stock of this city, when I have nothing to wear to my important meeting. But my best friend, of many years," a gesture to Astarion like it isn't obvious that's who he means, "Told me he knew a man who could help. A man of skill, and taste, with his finger on the pulse of fashion here in Baldur's Gate." He points down at Pennygood. "You."
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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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A plan is coming together, though, or at least vague concepts of things that might look like a plan if you squint hard enough. "You could visit, say you're, ah, I don't know. Investigating a rash of thefts at the Counting House, and you'd just like to confirm the key still belongs to its rightful owner." He waves a hand. "Then you'll report back to me where it is, I'll steal it, and then we'll be drowning in money."
The details are, of course, unimportant. Big picture stuff, here.
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This is going to end in a Goddamn Situation. He can feel it creeping up on them. It's there in that airy wave of the hand, a dozen things getting ready to go wrong. Bank security. Aristocratic vengeance. But maybe if they're quick and clever they can get out from under it.
"Sure, let's steal from your asshole boss," Bull says, raises his first question, unfortunately slightly more of a details guy. "What if he's the one holding the key?"
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"Well." He does have to think about that for a moment. Technically, there is a way they could steal it right off of Cazador. He could pretend that Bull is Cazador's next dinner, and then Bull could surprise him enough to grab the key and bolt.
But the chances of Cazador killing him before he got out is high, and then Astarion would be up shit creek without a paddle. "We'll deal with that little bump in the road when we get to it."
Translation: he'd rather stick his head in the sand and not think about it.
"For now, we should focus on the enjoyable parts. You do desperately need a makeover."
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Correction: at worst, he's going to get a makeover.
"Shit, okay, if that's what gets you going," Bull says, accepting his fate. He sits himself up some, but he's never had a single moment of insecurity about his body and he's not about to have one now. "If you're putting me in formalwear it's gotta be able to bypass the horns. Or have a stretchy neckline."
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Oh, well! It's something exciting to focus on. If he were to buy any new clothing for himself, everyone at home would be instantly suspicious, and his new money would be found out quickly. Bull, though, he can dress up in whatever he likes. So—
"There's a little shop not far from here. I've seen half-orcs in there through the window"—because window-shopping is all he ever really gets to do—"so I'm sure they'll be able to accommodate your, ah." Astarion gestures vaguely in Bull's direction. "Proportions."
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"I can go let 'em measure me up, but you'll have to pick the outfit. Don't have the eye for that shit." He relaxes back into his seat. "I like pink. And nothing too tight in the pants area, I've got a brace on under this." He slaps his shitty knee with his shitty hand that's missing a bit of finger — however you dress him he's always gonna look like he's been in three swordfights, sorry.
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"It won't be the easiest task to turn you into an effete gentleman, but unfortunately, it's what we have to work with." Honestly, he's a little more worried about Bull's acting skills. He's very... casual. Most of those banker types are snobby, with sticks lodged so far up their bottoms that it comes out their top.
"Well! The night is still young, so let's get a move on." He snaps his fingers, every bit the spoiled little brat he's expecting Bull to pretend to be. "The sooner we dress you up, the sooner you can be back home in your own bed, snuggling your teddy bear."
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The Mermaid, down at the docks, isn't that far from the gates to the Upper City, just hauling ass up a steep hill. The lights get brighter, Fist patrols a more frequent sight — and flowers, the night-blooming jasmine sweet on the air. Bull stays a half step behind Astarion right up until they're about to reach the tailor's.
"So what's the play here, Tiptoes, am I your charity case? Rent boy?" he asks before they go in. "Impoverished best friend?"
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"I thought I'd say we're twin brothers," he snarks, if only to buy time because he hasn't actually thought of the play at all. "Fraternal, of course."
Hmm. He looks back at Bull, discerning. No offense, but Bull isn't exactly giving 'high class escort', so that one's out. "Perhaps you lost all of your clothes in a horrible fire, and that's why you walk around with your chest out for everyone to see."
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True to his word, Bull shrinks a little as he enters the shop, some great pall of misery falling over him, broad shoulders hunched in, one hand clutching the strap of his shoulder pauldron like a man who is worried about the last clothes he has in the world. Heavy is the head that wears the horns, etc etc.
Despite this minimizing, Julio Pennygood looks alarmed to see Bull, and very relieved when he also sees there's someone accompanying him, coming over to talk to Astarion immediately. "Welcome, welcome."
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"And what can I do for two men of, er"—a quick glance Bull's way—"luxury?"
"As you can see," Astarion says, gesturing to Bull, "my friend here has just been in a terrible accident." Flatly: "All his shirts, to cinders." Pennygood's eyebrows raise. "Isn't that right?"
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"Nothing but my eyepatch and my sleeping trousers. A man of my stature, it is not easy to find new clothes. At first I thought, tomorrow I will be the laughing stock of this city, when I have nothing to wear to my important meeting. But my best friend, of many years," a gesture to Astarion like it isn't obvious that's who he means, "Told me he knew a man who could help. A man of skill, and taste, with his finger on the pulse of fashion here in Baldur's Gate." He points down at Pennygood. "You."
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