Bull is plenty aware that his skin hadn't phased the elf for a second, no blush, no lingering little peeks that the serving girls back home would do or the transfixed disgust of nobility. So the feeling that sparks in him when Astarion flirts back a little is mostly curiosity, always fascinated when he thinks he's spotted the edges of some kind of mask. One day he'll stop wanting to unpick this guy's whole deal.
"Yeah," he agrees, "Stop checking me out and go pay the guy." If nothing else he'd like the elbow room back.
Bull follows him out not long after, back in his circus tent pants, the outfit they've chosen in hand. Back in the act from before, though he's dialed back the misery now that the guy has a shirt to wear. Makes sure to thank the tailor and Astarion effusively before they go.
As they walk out, Bull's new outfit in a pretty little bag, Astarion feels surprisingly... well, not optimistic. That's a shade too far. But he doesn't feel entirely dreadful about this plan, which is a novelty all in itself.
"So," he says, hands clasped behind his back, "I suppose I should tell you about our mark." The last thing he ever wants to do in his life is think about Dufay, but sacrifices must be made. "You'll be talking to an awful, stuffy, snot-nosed chamberlain named Dufay."
It's obvious there's no love lost between them. Astarion wrinkles his nose just saying the name; Dufay, like it's a swear. How many times has that pompous snob called him a brat? He isn't entirely wrong, admittedly, but at least Astarion isn't the one willingly kissing Cazador's boots.
"It's an estate in the Upper City. Dark, foreboding. You can't miss it."
"Great," Bull says, to dark, forboding, pulling a face that's the opposite of great. "Okay, let's talk about the stuff that can kill me. Say this Dufay guy mistakes me for the assassin that killed his grandmother, what's he do about it. Hit me with a fireball? Call some kinda guards?"
A pause. Obviously, Astarion has not thought this far ahead.
"Well, you're quite difficult to mistake for anyone." Not a lot of eight-foot-tall men with horns and an eyepatch around here. "And, honestly, I can't imagine he cared very much for his nana."
"Don't say Astarion like that," he snaps back, mostly to give himself time to think. In a poor imitation of Bull's low and somewhat irritated voice, "Astarion."
Hands on his hips, he blows a strand of silver hair out of his face like this is all a big inconvenience to him. Cazador is probably who Bull should be most concerned about, considering his aptitude for magic and inclination for murdering, but there's the vampire spawn, too, and probably some other thralls—
If he says all that, Bull won't want to do this anymore. "I'm not... entirely sure what the security situation looks like. But I'm sure it's nothing to worry about—Dufay is an inveterate idiot. As long as you look the part, which you do thanks to me, it'll go off without a hitch."
He won't say Astarion like that if Astarion doesn't keep dancing around information like it's a game. He misses, briefly and sharply, the Chargers, who may have all been eccentric outcasts but they knew how to report to him. Because they knew some intel might be the difference between living and dying.
Bull heaves a sigh. No, Krem would tell him he's overthinking it. It's not wetwork. Rich aristocrat with a dumb servant. Astarion's the one who'll be risking his skin when he steals the key. This is a different thing, it's not practicality, he's — nervous.
"Yeah," he says, "Okay yeah." Making himself buy into it because what the shit other choice does he have. Keep living in this city and saving a hundred coin here and there? There's not a lot of people anywhere who're hard up enough to hear of some shithole on a different plane and say, I'll help you out if you take me too. "Without a hitch." He's the Iron fucking Bull, if it goes balls up he'll just kill everyone.
"I'll go tomorrow," he decides. "Might get someone from the Guild to pass a message. Probably better if you're not seen swinging by my rooms so much. And I've got some other uh, leads."
Astarion wonders if he should mention that he'll be there while this all goes down, just locked in some dilapidated dormitory or serving as the master of the house's entertainment. He doesn't. It's too humiliating.
"All right." And then, a moment later: "What leads?"
Tutting, he scolds, "Don't keep it to yourself. We're partners in this, dear. We share things." Obviously, he would never, ever keep anything important from Bull!!!
Unfortunately this works on Bull, even knowing real solidarity is probably poor odds with Astarion. "Guild stuff. I think I can get a fake key," Bull says. "That or I end up with a real key and we hit two vaults. But I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be a mark, which is fine. Free fake, you can swap it for the one you're taking."
And he's not done, carries on talking. "Plus I'm gonna see how much I can get Nine-Fingers to loan me. I've done some solid work for her, and she thinks she can tell when I'm lying." Owing money to the Guild is a quick way to lose kneecaps but he's planning on taking his all the way back to Thedas. If they're going to rob people, they might as well rob as many people as they can. "Oh, and I want the diabolist to message those Circle mages. If that's okay with you." Shockingly, not sarcasm, or at least, undetectable sarcasm.
Astarion stares for a moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion. If anyone's ever sincerely said if that's okay with you to him, it had to have been so long ago that he no longer remembers. He's hesitant to take it seriously lest Bull burst out laughing the next second—oh, you really thought I cared what you think? Then again, he doesn't want to overreact out of paranoia and look a fool, either.
"I—" He stumbles over his words, uncharacteristically nervous. How do people tolerate this? Someone acting nice—or at least, not completely awful—is a fucking minefield. "Yes." Clipped, a little awkward. "That would be... fine."
Then, moving swiftly along so that he can't be embarrassed: "And a fake key will do just fine. It'll give us quite a bit more time. Dufay isn't smart enough to tell the real one from a forgery."
Bull knows a lot about reading people, ferreting out their secrets and tells to get an idea of the bigger picture of someone's psyche. Habit to do it, like figuring out how he'd kill everyone if a fight broke out. But Astarion looks startled, for a brief flash, and Bull has to reluctantly acknowledge he has no idea what goes on in this guy's head.
"Good," he says. Gonna judge the man's stupidity for himself before he makes the call, but he seems happy Astarion's on board with all his scheming. Reaches out for the bag of clothes, since they're almost back at the Mermaid and he assumes Astarion once again won't stick around. "Talk tomorrow. Go relax, say goodbye to your city."
Astarion visibly wrestles with himself over whether to hand over the clothing before he finally relents and does; it's not like Bull is going to do this whole heist without him. Probably. If Bull screws him and doesn't send word tomorrow, Astarion will just tell the whole household that he tried to steal from them and let him deal with the consequences of that.
As for 'relaxing' and 'saying goodbye to the city'—
"Yes," he says, waving a hand. "I'll have a full night of hedonism and debauchery, and leave a trail of broken hearts in my wake."
In reality, he's going to spend the entire night feeling like an anxious prey animal and worrying about this plan. Whether it'll even work, whether they're going to get caught, whether this other plane Bull claims to come from even exists or if it's just some horrible practical joke that the universe is playing on him.
"Nice," Bull says seriously, about a night of hedonism and debauchery. A sharp grin. "See ya."
Most of the time he doesn't sleep much — tonight he really tries to pack it in, like it's something he can take a big dose of now and won't need more for a few days. Helps him stifle his own agitation.
For the first time in a long time there's qunlat on his lips when he gets ready in the morning, pulling on his new clothes. An old prayer, but without religious intent, just the comfort of the familiar words that he's spoken to himself before so many other battles. Buffs his horns and his boots. Wonders idly what Astarion's doing — does he sleep during the day? Do elves here sleep, without the Fade? He realizes he doesn't know.
The chamberlain is about as stupid as Astarion said, and eager to please, to smooth over any possible problems without it reaching his master. Another tally on the list of people who seem to be scared of the Szarr aristocrat. When he retrieves the key to show Bull he tries to be subtle, but it's sloppy sleight of hand work and Bull's eyepatch doesn't hinder his observation any.
He does end up leaving a message for Astarion, pays some Guild-aligned urchin to hang around selling the Gazette until he can deliver it: Red chestnut, by the tower painting, has a secret third drawer. Meet me at Beehive General. Seals it with a blob of wax — an excessive amount, because it needs to hide what seems to be another High Security vault key, Seven instead of Three, but it's gilted instead of the gold alloy of the real keys. Not a great forgery. But hey, maybe it'll buy them the extra time they need.
Astarion spends the better part of the day desperately trying to turn that seven into a three, chiseling into it with his dagger to "engrave" the number. It looks... okay. Like a very stylized three, perhaps. Hopefully, Dufay won't even think to look at it, and if he does, hopefully he'll be too afraid to admit to Cazador that he got swindled.
He replaces the real key with the fake one while Dufay is distracted with scolding one of the servants for not cleaning vigorously enough. Into his pocket the heavy gold key goes, and he spends the rest of the day in a giddy, horrified daze. Even when he goes to meet with Bull at the Beehive General, he's antsy and restless, fidgeting with his hair and his clothes. Practically bursting out of his skin with both pride at pulling something over on Cazador and abject horror that he's going to get caught.
"There you are," he snaps when Bull arrives. "It's been sundown for—"
Well. Like, five minutes. But it was an agonizing five minutes to wait.
Bull's still in his new red outfit instead of battle gear — might as well look the part for the guys who work in the Counting House, right? Didn't realize how on edge he was about the ways this could go bad until he spots Astarion, alive. Good.
"Easy," he murmurs, with a low inflection like Astarion is a temperamental nuggalope who needs soothing. "Had to meet our mage. How'd you go?"
Edited (remembered something stupid about qunari.) 2025-10-09 02:02 (UTC)
He's all anxiety, palms damp from worry and excitement, but at least Bull seems even-keeled. It doesn't calm him, exactly—very little could, when he's just done something that could get him put in the kennels for the next decade if he's found out—but it does help keep his stress from rising to intolerable levels. Breath is unnecessary, but he take a deep one anyway, in and out. A psychological need rather than a physiological one.
"I got it," he says, unearthing the hefty key from his pocket, hands shaking a little from the adrenaline rush. Just as quickly as it had been revealed, the key goes back into his pocket. No point in swinging it around where anyone could see. Then, a sudden burst of surprise, like he can barely believe it: "—Ha! I actually got it."
Today is a maelstrom of emotions. Abject fear, manic joy.
"Now all that's left to do is procure our coin and bring it to that wizard of yours."
"Fuck yes," Bull says, crisp and earnest, eye lit up and smile warm. He doesn't really touch other people unnecessarially, ever, but he gives Astarion a light clap on the back. "Great job. We're almost outta here." He can't help his own panicky little thrill at that; but he's trying really, really hard not to feel anything big. Keep focused on the job. Leaving is an inevitability, however it happens for him, no point fucking it up by getting excited and sloppy.
The wizard, though. "Should warn you," he says, still looking pleased, this time at his part of the plan coming together, "The guy we've got — he's annoying. And about half the price of the diabolist, so." The second thing cancels out the first thing, probably. They already have a lot of coin, Cazador would have to be pathetically poor for robbing him to not bring them over the line.
It feels— strange, to be told that he's done a good job. Habit would have him accuse Bull of mocking him, but he seems genuine, and it makes Astarion feel... well, he's not sure what this feeling is, because it's a heretofore unknown one to him. Camaraderie? Huh. He stands a little straighter, head held a little higher.
"I don't care if he made vigorous love to my mother. And my father. At the same time." Not like he really remembers much about them, anyway. "As long as he gets the job done."
He's not much for leading, but, emboldened, he gestures for Bull to follow. "Come along. We've a vault to empty out."
Bull chose a store that's basically opposite the Counting House, so they don't have far to go before they're entering the upper level of the bank. A bored employee asks their business with a curled lip and a cursory glance, and directs them to the correct line.
It's much shorter than the one for people depositing and withdrawing small pouches from the upper section, but they still have to wait a while for an employee with the clearance to take them all the way down to the high security vaults. Slightly torturous for two criminals who are all stricken with anticipation.
The halfling clerk introduces himself as Meadhoney and asks for their bank pass — the paper Bull produces before Astarion can shit himself is a much better forgery than that gilt key, and handed back without issue.
"Right this way, sirs," Meadhoney says, coming around to lift the heavy barred gate so they can enter past the heavily armoured cashguards, and head down the stairs, past rooms full of wine racks and polished armor and heavy looking chests — and more guards, of course. "Just down these stairs," he instructs, "And wait at the sign for one of our friendly bankers to show you to your vault." A pause, and then he repeats slower, for emphasis, "For your own safety, please do not continue beyond the sign without a staff member to assist."
Astarion only grows more nervous as they enter the Counting House, and yes, when they're asked for a bank pass, he almost does shit himself. The relief he feels when Bull pulls one out of thin air is palpable, although he's still obviously jumping out of his skin: his face is carefully placid, but it's clear in the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, how his hand keeps coming to rest on the sheath of his dagger.
When they're left alone, he whispers, "Gods, I didn't know we'd need a pass." He hasn't been to the bank in 200 years, give or take. He glances past the sign, then, antsy.
"Perhaps we should just— get a move on."
The banker will recognize Cazador and Dufay. They won't recognize him, and certainly not Bull. It'll be instantly suspicious, and maybe they'll even contact Cazador about it—
"Come on," he says, impulsively stepping past the sign.
Bull reaches out and just grabs a hold of the back of his shirt like a toddler leash, and holds on, unmoving.
"One wrong step down here, you're gonna have a dozen of those armoured guys on your ass," Bull says, measured. "You wanna leave me the key and go back up?" He's pretty sure he already knows the answer to that one, but it's the only other option he's offering. "You got this. Treat anyone who questions you like shit on your shoe, you're good at that."
It's not trust, exactly, but Bull is the only one here who seems confident in what they're doing, so Astarion really has no choice but to defer to him. Also, the fact that he's been scruffed like a misbehaving cat doesn't help.
The 'friendly banker' makes his way down the stairs, a sharply dressed human with a pointy, upturned nose. Astarion instantly slaps Bull's hand away from his shirt, smoothing down the fabric so as to look his most presentable.
"Oh," the banker says, a little surprised. "I was expecting Mr. Szarr, or Antwun." Antwun. He's on a first name basis with Dufay—great. "You are...?"
Treat anyone who questions him like shit on his shoe. Okay. Astarion hikes his chin up, answering, "Having my time wasted already. Mr. Szarr has a very important gala coming up, and if he doesn't get this coin today, he'll be very unhappy—" A glance at the gold-plated nametag pinned to the banker's crisp shirt. "Edgar."
Edgar looks a little taken aback. "It's just that only Mr. Szarr and his chamberlain are authorized to open the vault—"
"And as I've already said," Astarion huffs, the lies coming easily, "they're very busy planning a prestigious event." He casts a sidelong glance at Bull. "Ugh. It's so difficult to find good help these days."
"A disappointment," Bull agrees, shaking his head and tutting.
A glance to Edgar. "If you'd prefer... well, Mr. Dufay went out delivering invitations, but I could go back on my own, try and fetch you Mr. Szarr." He glances up at nothing, horns tipped, doing calculations. "Take me about twenty minutes to get all the way to the estate, then I'd have to interrupt him and the guests, explain why the key wasn't good enough and Edgar wants to see him in person. Then another twenty to get back— maybe fifteen, he'll be pretty mad."
Edgar blanches, apparently familiar enough with Cazador that he does not want that particular series of events to occur. "I'm not going to stand around for an hour," he snipes at Bull, and then to Astarion. "My apologies, sir. Do you have the key? Come along."
But he's watching them closely now, even as he takes them down a hallway to a room with a series of runes etched on the floor. Inputs a complex code that lights up the runes and slides open a heavy round door silently, a gust of still air emerging. The high security vaults are also where the bank keeps years and years of records, so there's a library smell to it as they're walked down more stairs past rows and rows of shelves. The banker's heels click along the vast, reflective marble floors.
Bull is a good liar, he thinks delightedly. And then— Bull is a good liar, he thinks suspiciously. Astarion can't help but note that Bull's 'tell' is conspicuously absent during this lie. Something to keep in mind. In this moment, at least, the lies are in his favor, so he allows the delight to overtake him again. This really might work.
This time tomorrow, he might be in... what was it again? Skygold? Whatever. He won't be here, and that's all that matters.
Astarion follows Edgar down into the vaults with a newfound pep in his step, reaching into his pocket to produce the key once they've made it down to the rows of engraved vault doors. "Right here," he says, and the room is so large that his voice echoes. "Do you have a cart? We'll be taking everything."
Edgar, poised to slot the key into its hole, pauses. Looks back, frowning. "Everything? That's a bit... unconventional."
Bull searches for another lie, but gives up and just hopes his intimidating glare carries them through.
"Now look here," Edgar says, faltering only briefly and then plowing forward, "I'm afraid I'll have to take you to have a word with our Head Banker — I'm sure a Zone of Truth will sort this all out and allow you to get on with your transaction—"
Bull judges the guy's stature and physique as he talks at them, then punches Edgar in the temple with just the right amount of force and catches him as he crumples.
"Ah, shit." There doesn't appear to be anybody else in here, at least for now; no point stationing guards behind an arcane lock. This whole place is a concrete and marble box under the ocean, there's no other way in — or out. "You were right. It's fine, change of plans, that's all." Calm because he needs Astarion calm. He's already turning the whole Counting House in his head like a puzzle box, retracing their steps to think about when they might need to fight, if someone sets off an alarm.
But first things first. Edgar had just pressed the key into the lock and it sits there; Bull gestures with his chin. "You want to do the honours?"
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"Yeah," he agrees, "Stop checking me out and go pay the guy." If nothing else he'd like the elbow room back.
Bull follows him out not long after, back in his circus tent pants, the outfit they've chosen in hand. Back in the act from before, though he's dialed back the misery now that the guy has a shirt to wear. Makes sure to thank the tailor and Astarion effusively before they go.
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"So," he says, hands clasped behind his back, "I suppose I should tell you about our mark." The last thing he ever wants to do in his life is think about Dufay, but sacrifices must be made. "You'll be talking to an awful, stuffy, snot-nosed chamberlain named Dufay."
It's obvious there's no love lost between them. Astarion wrinkles his nose just saying the name; Dufay, like it's a swear. How many times has that pompous snob called him a brat? He isn't entirely wrong, admittedly, but at least Astarion isn't the one willingly kissing Cazador's boots.
"It's an estate in the Upper City. Dark, foreboding. You can't miss it."
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"Well, you're quite difficult to mistake for anyone." Not a lot of eight-foot-tall men with horns and an eyepatch around here. "And, honestly, I can't imagine he cared very much for his nana."
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Hands on his hips, he blows a strand of silver hair out of his face like this is all a big inconvenience to him. Cazador is probably who Bull should be most concerned about, considering his aptitude for magic and inclination for murdering, but there's the vampire spawn, too, and probably some other thralls—
If he says all that, Bull won't want to do this anymore. "I'm not... entirely sure what the security situation looks like. But I'm sure it's nothing to worry about—Dufay is an inveterate idiot. As long as you look the part, which you do thanks to me, it'll go off without a hitch."
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Bull heaves a sigh. No, Krem would tell him he's overthinking it. It's not wetwork. Rich aristocrat with a dumb servant. Astarion's the one who'll be risking his skin when he steals the key. This is a different thing, it's not practicality, he's — nervous.
"Yeah," he says, "Okay yeah." Making himself buy into it because what the shit other choice does he have. Keep living in this city and saving a hundred coin here and there? There's not a lot of people anywhere who're hard up enough to hear of some shithole on a different plane and say, I'll help you out if you take me too. "Without a hitch." He's the Iron fucking Bull, if it goes balls up he'll just kill everyone.
"I'll go tomorrow," he decides. "Might get someone from the Guild to pass a message. Probably better if you're not seen swinging by my rooms so much. And I've got some other uh, leads."
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"All right." And then, a moment later: "What leads?"
Tutting, he scolds, "Don't keep it to yourself. We're partners in this, dear. We share things." Obviously, he would never, ever keep anything important from Bull!!!
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And he's not done, carries on talking. "Plus I'm gonna see how much I can get Nine-Fingers to loan me. I've done some solid work for her, and she thinks she can tell when I'm lying." Owing money to the Guild is a quick way to lose kneecaps but he's planning on taking his all the way back to Thedas. If they're going to rob people, they might as well rob as many people as they can. "Oh, and I want the diabolist to message those Circle mages. If that's okay with you." Shockingly, not sarcasm, or at least, undetectable sarcasm.
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"I—" He stumbles over his words, uncharacteristically nervous. How do people tolerate this? Someone acting nice—or at least, not completely awful—is a fucking minefield. "Yes." Clipped, a little awkward. "That would be... fine."
Then, moving swiftly along so that he can't be embarrassed: "And a fake key will do just fine. It'll give us quite a bit more time. Dufay isn't smart enough to tell the real one from a forgery."
Maybe. He's, like, 75% sure.
still me.
"Good," he says. Gonna judge the man's stupidity for himself before he makes the call, but he seems happy Astarion's on board with all his scheming. Reaches out for the bag of clothes, since they're almost back at the Mermaid and he assumes Astarion once again won't stick around. "Talk tomorrow. Go relax, say goodbye to your city."
i love it ✨
As for 'relaxing' and 'saying goodbye to the city'—
"Yes," he says, waving a hand. "I'll have a full night of hedonism and debauchery, and leave a trail of broken hearts in my wake."
In reality, he's going to spend the entire night feeling like an anxious prey animal and worrying about this plan. Whether it'll even work, whether they're going to get caught, whether this other plane Bull claims to come from even exists or if it's just some horrible practical joke that the universe is playing on him.
"Until tomorrow, then."
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Most of the time he doesn't sleep much — tonight he really tries to pack it in, like it's something he can take a big dose of now and won't need more for a few days. Helps him stifle his own agitation.
For the first time in a long time there's qunlat on his lips when he gets ready in the morning, pulling on his new clothes. An old prayer, but without religious intent, just the comfort of the familiar words that he's spoken to himself before so many other battles. Buffs his horns and his boots. Wonders idly what Astarion's doing — does he sleep during the day? Do elves here sleep, without the Fade? He realizes he doesn't know.
The chamberlain is about as stupid as Astarion said, and eager to please, to smooth over any possible problems without it reaching his master. Another tally on the list of people who seem to be scared of the Szarr aristocrat. When he retrieves the key to show Bull he tries to be subtle, but it's sloppy sleight of hand work and Bull's eyepatch doesn't hinder his observation any.
He does end up leaving a message for Astarion, pays some Guild-aligned urchin to hang around selling the Gazette until he can deliver it: Red chestnut, by the tower painting, has a secret third drawer. Meet me at Beehive General. Seals it with a blob of wax — an excessive amount, because it needs to hide what seems to be another High Security vault key, Seven instead of Three, but it's gilted instead of the gold alloy of the real keys. Not a great forgery. But hey, maybe it'll buy them the extra time they need.
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He replaces the real key with the fake one while Dufay is distracted with scolding one of the servants for not cleaning vigorously enough. Into his pocket the heavy gold key goes, and he spends the rest of the day in a giddy, horrified daze. Even when he goes to meet with Bull at the Beehive General, he's antsy and restless, fidgeting with his hair and his clothes. Practically bursting out of his skin with both pride at pulling something over on Cazador and abject horror that he's going to get caught.
"There you are," he snaps when Bull arrives. "It's been sundown for—"
Well. Like, five minutes. But it was an agonizing five minutes to wait.
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"Easy," he murmurs, with a low inflection like Astarion is a temperamental nuggalope who needs soothing. "Had to meet our mage. How'd you go?"
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"I got it," he says, unearthing the hefty key from his pocket, hands shaking a little from the adrenaline rush. Just as quickly as it had been revealed, the key goes back into his pocket. No point in swinging it around where anyone could see. Then, a sudden burst of surprise, like he can barely believe it: "—Ha! I actually got it."
Today is a maelstrom of emotions. Abject fear, manic joy.
"Now all that's left to do is procure our coin and bring it to that wizard of yours."
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The wizard, though. "Should warn you," he says, still looking pleased, this time at his part of the plan coming together, "The guy we've got — he's annoying. And about half the price of the diabolist, so." The second thing cancels out the first thing, probably. They already have a lot of coin, Cazador would have to be pathetically poor for robbing him to not bring them over the line.
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"I don't care if he made vigorous love to my mother. And my father. At the same time." Not like he really remembers much about them, anyway. "As long as he gets the job done."
He's not much for leading, but, emboldened, he gestures for Bull to follow. "Come along. We've a vault to empty out."
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It's much shorter than the one for people depositing and withdrawing small pouches from the upper section, but they still have to wait a while for an employee with the clearance to take them all the way down to the high security vaults. Slightly torturous for two criminals who are all stricken with anticipation.
The halfling clerk introduces himself as Meadhoney and asks for their bank pass — the paper Bull produces before Astarion can shit himself is a much better forgery than that gilt key, and handed back without issue.
"Right this way, sirs," Meadhoney says, coming around to lift the heavy barred gate so they can enter past the heavily armoured cashguards, and head down the stairs, past rooms full of wine racks and polished armor and heavy looking chests — and more guards, of course. "Just down these stairs," he instructs, "And wait at the sign for one of our friendly bankers to show you to your vault." A pause, and then he repeats slower, for emphasis, "For your own safety, please do not continue beyond the sign without a staff member to assist."
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When they're left alone, he whispers, "Gods, I didn't know we'd need a pass." He hasn't been to the bank in 200 years, give or take. He glances past the sign, then, antsy.
"Perhaps we should just— get a move on."
The banker will recognize Cazador and Dufay. They won't recognize him, and certainly not Bull. It'll be instantly suspicious, and maybe they'll even contact Cazador about it—
"Come on," he says, impulsively stepping past the sign.
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"One wrong step down here, you're gonna have a dozen of those armoured guys on your ass," Bull says, measured. "You wanna leave me the key and go back up?" He's pretty sure he already knows the answer to that one, but it's the only other option he's offering. "You got this. Treat anyone who questions you like shit on your shoe, you're good at that."
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The 'friendly banker' makes his way down the stairs, a sharply dressed human with a pointy, upturned nose. Astarion instantly slaps Bull's hand away from his shirt, smoothing down the fabric so as to look his most presentable.
"Oh," the banker says, a little surprised. "I was expecting Mr. Szarr, or Antwun." Antwun. He's on a first name basis with Dufay—great. "You are...?"
Treat anyone who questions him like shit on his shoe. Okay. Astarion hikes his chin up, answering, "Having my time wasted already. Mr. Szarr has a very important gala coming up, and if he doesn't get this coin today, he'll be very unhappy—" A glance at the gold-plated nametag pinned to the banker's crisp shirt. "Edgar."
Edgar looks a little taken aback. "It's just that only Mr. Szarr and his chamberlain are authorized to open the vault—"
"And as I've already said," Astarion huffs, the lies coming easily, "they're very busy planning a prestigious event." He casts a sidelong glance at Bull. "Ugh. It's so difficult to find good help these days."
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A glance to Edgar. "If you'd prefer... well, Mr. Dufay went out delivering invitations, but I could go back on my own, try and fetch you Mr. Szarr." He glances up at nothing, horns tipped, doing calculations. "Take me about twenty minutes to get all the way to the estate, then I'd have to interrupt him and the guests, explain why the key wasn't good enough and Edgar wants to see him in person. Then another twenty to get back— maybe fifteen, he'll be pretty mad."
Edgar blanches, apparently familiar enough with Cazador that he does not want that particular series of events to occur. "I'm not going to stand around for an hour," he snipes at Bull, and then to Astarion. "My apologies, sir. Do you have the key? Come along."
But he's watching them closely now, even as he takes them down a hallway to a room with a series of runes etched on the floor. Inputs a complex code that lights up the runes and slides open a heavy round door silently, a gust of still air emerging. The high security vaults are also where the bank keeps years and years of records, so there's a library smell to it as they're walked down more stairs past rows and rows of shelves. The banker's heels click along the vast, reflective marble floors.
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This time tomorrow, he might be in... what was it again? Skygold? Whatever. He won't be here, and that's all that matters.
Astarion follows Edgar down into the vaults with a newfound pep in his step, reaching into his pocket to produce the key once they've made it down to the rows of engraved vault doors. "Right here," he says, and the room is so large that his voice echoes. "Do you have a cart? We'll be taking everything."
Edgar, poised to slot the key into its hole, pauses. Looks back, frowning. "Everything? That's a bit... unconventional."
"It's a very expensive party."
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"Now look here," Edgar says, faltering only briefly and then plowing forward, "I'm afraid I'll have to take you to have a word with our Head Banker — I'm sure a Zone of Truth will sort this all out and allow you to get on with your transaction—"
Bull judges the guy's stature and physique as he talks at them, then punches Edgar in the temple with just the right amount of force and catches him as he crumples.
"Ah, shit." There doesn't appear to be anybody else in here, at least for now; no point stationing guards behind an arcane lock. This whole place is a concrete and marble box under the ocean, there's no other way in — or out. "You were right. It's fine, change of plans, that's all." Calm because he needs Astarion calm. He's already turning the whole Counting House in his head like a puzzle box, retracing their steps to think about when they might need to fight, if someone sets off an alarm.
But first things first. Edgar had just pressed the key into the lock and it sits there; Bull gestures with his chin. "You want to do the honours?"
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apologies, i wrote you a fanfic
PLEASE i'm delighted
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