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."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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."