nibbling | open post pt. 2.

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."

He'd been concerned about Bull's acting ability, but— the man commits. Astarion stares at him with a mixture of surprise and delight, impossibly amused at witnessing him turn into some genteel victim of circumstance in front of his very eyes. Well done, Bull; they might actually be able to pull off this little heist after all.

"Yes," Astarion agrees. "I believe those were my exact words."

"Oh!" Pennygood says, his misgivings about Bull's appearance dissipating now that he's been so thoroughly complimented. "Well, you came to the right place, gentleman. The selection for someone of your size—er, that is, of your generous stature—will be smaller, but I do believe I have some items in the back for you to try on."

Astarion had expected as much. He can't even guarantee that they'll find something that matches, but it'll still be better than Bull showing up shirtless. He's not going to seduce Dufay for the information. ...Or, at least, they'll call that Plan B.

"I'm sure whatever you have will do splendidly," Astarion says with a mild smile, before Pennygood scurries away to find suitable clothing for Bull to try. Once he's out of earshot, Astarion gives Bull an appraising look, obviously pleased with his performance. "Well, I didn't know you were gifted in the theatre."

Bull snorts, tosses him a glance that is more fond than it should be. "Only 'cause you don't listen when I tell you crap," he points out, no heat, all bullshit. "I can dance okay, too, but somehow I don't think we're gonna need that."

Astarion rolls his eyes, because he totally listens. Just not when things are boring, or complex, or not about him.

"Let's call ballet Plan C," he says, gracefully not mentioning what Plan B is. He pictures Bull dancing on his tippy toes, horns getting caught in some fancy chandelier. It's a very amusing image, and he chuckles.

When Pennygood returns, it's with a few articles of clothing draped over his arm. Considering that he's a dwarf and these are made for a much taller person, they drag a little on the floor despite his best efforts. "I've procured a few of our finest items," he lies; he procured a few of their biggest items and prayed that they'd fit. "Shall I show you to a dressing room?" And then, only offering out of politeness, "—Uh, I can assist if you need help getting the attire over your horns..."

"I can manage," Bull says with a wave of his hand to try and cover the flat note in his voice.

He gathers up all the fabric and follows Pennygood to whatever curtained off area they have to change in. It's not spacious. Bull throws everything to hang over the top of the curtain rod and starts to undress. Not that he has much to take off.

The first outfit is the easiest to put on; the blue shirt has no sleeves, horizontal clasps all the way up the front that he just has to force closed over the expanse of his chest. Tries on a long plum coat along with it, and a tighter pair of pants - maybe a little too tight, he can't imagine living his life in these without tearing them. The colours and embroidered patterns don't match, but constructing a nice outfit isn't his job, he's just gotta show them what the clothes look like, so he comes out and spins for Pennygood and Astarion, feeling like a dick. The next set is equally mismatched but fits a little better, a longer shirt in red and gold.

The third outfit, though, that has a white shirt that goes over the head, and there's a clear, "Aw, crap," growled from behind the curtain as Bull tries to stretch the neckline to wiggle it over his left horn and just gets it stuck on there, stretched and uncomfortable. Qunari even have a saying about this, the equivalent of "getting caught with your pants down".

Astarion, waiting not-so-patiently against the wall, stops his restless (read: bored! Bull is taking so long in there) fidgeting only at the sound of 'aw, crap'. Pennygood hears it, too, and looks vaguely alarmed. "Sir, is everything all right in there?" he asks, obviously more concerned about the state of his product than whether Bull is okay.

"Nothing to worry about, I'm sure—" Astarion says, rudely peeking behind the curtain without even warning Bull or asking if he's decent. Look, Bull's clearly not shy; he walks around with his tits fully out. At the sight of him, shirt caught on those fearsome horns of his, Astarion barks a laugh.

"Gentlemen?" Pennygood asks, clearly growing more worried about his precious clothing. You break it with your giant horns, you buy it is not an official rule here, but he thinks surely it would hold up, right...? "Is there a problem?"

"Nope!" Bull calls back, and then to Astarion, hissed lower, resisting the urge to physically haul him, "Get in here and help me." Asshole.

He's gonna pay for this later but he drops down onto one knee, the other one creaking ominously, since his brace is on the floor with the rest of his shit. Without his pants on the massive spiderweb of white scarring over his left knee speaks of yet another bad old injury. But Astarion is right that he doesn't seem bothered to be caught in nothing but his subligaculum.

The whole thing could be kinda fun under other circumstances, but is mostly annoying right now. He tips his head forward so Astarion can free the shirt without tearing it. Muttering to himself. "Stupid fuckin' shirt necks with no give. Woulda looked great in that one." Big white billowy shirts are basically the formalwear he'd choose for himself, though probably a little too pirate captain for their purposes.

Fucking hells. Astarion does not want to waste their precious coin on some expensive shirt that Bull has torn apart with his horns. He's already running through excuses—Pennygood should have known better, and it's his fault for giving them a shirt that wouldn't stretch over the head!—as he approaches, hardly precious about Bull's state of undress. He's seen a lot of people naked over the years; he can't remember the last time it actually excited or embarrassed him. Most of the time, he doesn't feel anything about it besides blissful numbness.

He is actually quite entertained by this particular situation, though, and although Bull can't see it with the billowy shirt hanging over his face, the corner of his mouth curls up in (somewhat malicious) amusement.

"How long have you had horns, and you're still getting things caught on them?" he chides, reaching out to pluck carefully at the shirt, taking special pains to touch only the fabric and nothing else. While he's not precious about seeing people naked, he's still not the biggest fan of touching them. This is, of course, a ridiculous way to try to get the shirt off, and he ends up getting it more tangled in Bull's horns than it was before.

An exasperated sigh. "Stay still," he demands. ...Then, tapping a horn with one fingernail: "Have you any feeling in these?" Just so he knows before he starts, you know, getting all up in there.

Hey, he doesn't exactly wear a lot of shirts to get in the practice with getting them on. But there's a real scolding Tamassran note to Astarion's voice so he doesn't, for once, chat back. Keeps still when he's told to keep still.

"No more'n a fingernail," Bull promises. That is: the place where they join into his skin (and into his skull) has nerves, so if there's a lot of pressure they get that pulled-wrong feeling, but he doesn't really even feel the tap except as a tiny reverberation.

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