Part of him feels the urge to pull away and stay here, because if any part of this harebrained escape goes sideways, his entire life is forfeit. He'll be in the coffin again for sure, and this time not just for a year—for the next hundred years, at least. The ice cold shot of fear he feels at that thought makes him pause, even with Bull urging him to move.
But if there's anything he knows about Cazador, it's that Astarion will end up taking the blame for all of this no matter what he does. He feels an ice cold shot of fear at that, too, and— well, fuck it. He's doomed either way, so he might as well try to scramble his way out of this like the rat that he is.
So, he shoots out the door and into the hallway himself, pushing past the wizard with a sharp elbow to his side. As he bounds down the hall, Petras emerges from the dormitories first, fingers curled around a dagger like he's itching for a fight. If Astarion were the empathetic type, he'd think that he could hardly blame him, because Astarion would be eager to prove himself loyal in this situation, too— but he's not the empathetic type, so instead Astarion kicks him in the groin.
"Gods, you— asshole," Petras chokes out.
He'd love to stick around and gloat, but Astarion can hear the cracking of ice from the kennels, shards of it pelting out into the hall from the doorway, and Cazador's furious, "Kill them already, you halfwits."
Violet bursts through the door nearest Gale at that, pushing Petras aside to stab him in the shoulder, and her bared sharpb teeth and the muted pallor of her tiefling skin, the necromancer's red light shining behind her eyes, finally manages to tip Gale off about what's going on here.
Bull is with Astarion, running for his life even though the head wound is sheeting blood down his grey skin. Gale bellows some complicated Latin phrase and pops down a celestial to start handing out radiant damage, before Misty-Stepping up to the next floor so he can start raining fiery death on the vampires as they all nicely cluster in fireball range for him. Several copies of himself spring from nowhere.
Bull is slightly concerned they're going to lose the portal wizard, but he seems to be handling himself — not a huge surprise for someone who can charge 15k gold for a single spell. Fleeing isn't usually his go to, but this is a shit place to fight, narrow corridors, people popping out of doors, so he puts it all into barrelling up the stairs instead of fighting. And he wants to get Astarion out of here before sunrise — they're cutting it really fucking close though.
This is a mess. Radiant magic whizzes by his head, and hells, the last thing he needs is to get burnt to a crisp by that. He eagerly heads for the main foyer, no plan in mind besides get out of the blast radius of— well, everyone. As he turns the corner, he can hear the sizzling of radiant energy on skin, followed by the crackling of lightning. Cazador must be pulling out all the stops; for just a brief second, Astarion allows himself to feel giddy at the fact that someone is showing Cazador up in his own home.
The happiness passes quickly, though. As they turn into the entryway, one of the servants chucks a vase their way; Astarion narrowly manages to sidestep the projectile decor, responding in kind by picking up a heavy paperweight and hurling it. It hits the servant square in the face, and he crumples.
It's usually deathly quiet in the palace, but now it's so loud, the sounds of shouting and magic echoing off the walls. If that weren't enough to give Astarion a migraine, he can smell the coppery tinge of Bull's blood in the air, so hungry that it makes him nauseated. He shakes his head, willing the hollow ache away.
"Tell me you have that damned fork," he hisses, because he needs to be out of this plane of existence yesterday.
"Mage has it," Bull confirms, as he bursts through the tall double doors and onto Cazador's estate. "Keep running." The sky is dangerously pale, the elegantly paved Upper City hushed with the held breath of pre-dawn. Somewhere nearby, a Flaming Fist is yawning as his gaze passes blandly over the creepy old Szarr manor, which has no windows to display the bright pops of magic taking place inside.
"I think it might be best if we all put Baldur's Gate behind us," Gale says as he appears from nowhere, hair a lightning-singed mess, clearly including himself in that. "I did not expect to be antagonising a vampire lord today. Not my best showing. If you'll link hands, gentlemen? Quickly now." He taps the tuning fork to make it sing, takes one of their hands in each of his, and it's almost anticlimatic as in the space of six seconds they blink out of one plane and into another, the first rays of the sunrise cresting to light the empty space.
And then they pop out into a muddy field, lit by Thedas' two moons, startling a herd of dozing domesticated druffalo, who immediately grunt and snort and start moving away from this sudden incursion in one mass of bovine fur and horns. "Marvellous," says Gale, dropping their hands to clap his, once, smug. "Though I did hope we'd come out in a city. Farm animals are a good sign for some sort of civilization, I suppose, however rural. Well, as you left everything back in my rooms, I'll do you a good turn, and help you set up camp, since you do look as though you could use a rest—"
Bull isn't listening, really. He has to remind himself that he survived the rift that had taken him to Baldur's Gate so he'll survive this too, but right now it doesn't feel like it. Teleportation just does something to his insides, like how some people get sick on boats. The nausea mixes confusingly with the pain of his injuries and the first low stirrings of a feeling too big for his chest to contain, and he doesn't let go of Astarion's hand. "Hey," he says, quiet to Astarion under Gale's carrying on. "Welcome to Thedas."
This is all very overwhelming. That had been quite possibly the most afraid Astarion has ever felt in his life; he's covered all over in a thin sheen of cold sweat, incredibly aware of how chilly and clammy his palm must feel. Out here in the fresh air, he can smell Bull's blood stronger than ever, the scent making him sway. And he's free, a fact so unbelievable that he could start sobbing right here.
Gods, he can't believe Bull actually came. He's not as smart as Astarion thought.
All of that, and the obnoxious wizard won't stop talking. Astarion slips away from Bull, crouching down with his head between his knees. Let them all think he's just nauseated from the interplanar travel.
"I think I'm going to vomit," he says, and the only reason he doesn't is because he has nothing inside to retch up.
"Yeah," Bull agrees, on a long exhale. "Me too." He definitely should not have eaten all those little sandwiches.
Gale is still rambling on, doodling arcane symbols in the air to test the difference in the Weave, and probably making half the demons in the Fade perk their ears up.
Bull takes a few deep breaths of bracing air, relying on old trainings to ignore his stomach trying to climb out his throat. "Think we're somewhere in Fereldan. Might wanna go easy on the magic, people here are uh..." how can he explain this to someone from the world they just came from. "Superstitious."
"Not to worry," Gale says. "A night to recover and then I'll be on my way, I think." And then before Bull can ask where he expects to be recovering in the middle of a field, Gale sketches a door out of nowhere, shimmering amidst the grass. One more Gale ex Machina for the road: he upcasts a Magnificent Mansion, somewhere much like his tower to relax and regain his spell slots. But Bull and Astarion can use it too, one night's respite before trying to make their way to Skyhold.
Astarion had thought they'd just pop right into Skyhold. The realization that they're going to have to travel is an unpleasant one, considering they don't even have a tent or sleeping bags, and his shoes definitely aren't made to hike in. Maybe they can hitch a ride on a caravan...?
All problems for tomorrow. Astarion stands, the world spinning slightly less now. Hopefully, this Ferelden is close to wherever Skyhold is. (Are they cities? Countries? Fuck if he knows. He probably should have asked more questions.)
But he can see the slight glow of the sun now, feels a faint prickling on his skin. Astarion, as quick as anything, heads toward the doors of the makeshift dwelling, then— stops. He hasn't been invited in.
"Ah." Fuck. "What do you say we all go inside, hm?" A pause. "Really, say it."
Gale gives him a look that clearly conveys I Know What You Are (Bull catching it like 🏳️🌈?) Offers a polite, "Astarion, wasn't it? Gale of Waterdeep, a pleasure. I presume that was Cazador Szarr back there. Informed guess, he has a few ugly footnotes in the histories." It's only getting closer to dawn. Gale lifts a brow. "You're quite welcome in my home, of course."
Bull is aware that something is going over his horns, some additional tension here he isn't getting. Add it to the laundry list of things he wants to ask Astarion about — right now he's more interested in sitting the fuck down, and he does so in the first chair that presents itself. An Unseen Servant comes over and tries to start tending to his wounds, and Bull shoos it away, well shot of freaky demon crap for the day and honestly on the verge of going back out to make like his namesake and sleep in the grass with the druffalo.
Fuck!!! This Gale of Waterdeep is too smart for his own good. Astarion smiles tightly, hurrying inside and immediately drawing the fancy curtains over the windows before his skin can go from tingling to burning.
He absolutely does not want Gale blabbing about his vampiricism to Bull, not when he could still choose to leave Astarion on the side of the road on a plane he's wholly unfamiliar with. Bull probably doesn't like him enough yet to overlook the 'bloodsucking creature of the night' thing; he'll have to work on that before Bull figures it out himself.
For now: "What a night! I think we should all turn in. Alone."
"I'm inclined to agree with you," Gale says, "I need my beauty sleep." He needs his spell slots back. "Feel free to make use of the facilities as you're so inclined, gentlemen. And remember, anything here will dissipate if removed from the premises." And on that passive aggressive note, he gives a cheery little wave, "Goodnight!"
Bull watches him retreat to his purple-doored bedroom, then looks back to Astarion. "I told you. Annoying." Gale was made in a lab to piss him off. Anyway, Bull clearly isn't planning on getting out of the chair yet, the tips of his horns resting on the wall behind him. Running on empty after the constant hustle to get them here.
Very annoying! Astarion makes a face like he wasn't just planning on stealing everything his sticky little fingers can carry, but visibly relaxes as Gale leaves the room. Hopefully, he'll be too self-absorbed to be interested in warning Bull about the monster he's saddled himself with.
"Mm. Good night, then. Or good morning, as the case may be."
And Astarion turns to go... well, he's not sure, since Gale didn't actually bother to explain where any of the facilities are. It turns out to be unimportant, because Astarion turns back the next second.
"Don't you need a potion, or a healer of some sort?" Or, like, bandages? Or maybe some soap and water? Anything? "It's just. You're trickling."
He's very aware of it, both because it makes his stomach lurch and because no one has ever sustained a head injury for him before. That was really stupid. He's not at all pleased by it.
"Probably," says Bull, reaching up a hand to run gingerly along his horns, skipping over a new chip with a wince until he finds where the skin of his head has been opened. Hisses, then examines his fingers for blood. "Don't think it needs stitches. Head wounds are bleeders. You got a secret stash of potions I don't know about?"
Astarion crosses his arms, glancing off to look at a little figurine of what appears to be a winged cat in flight. This Gale fellow has some strange knick-knacks.
"I was merely"—trying to ask if Bull is okay, but he doesn't know how to actually do that, and now he feels a little stupid for even trying—"curious if you'd sustained any brain damage, that's all."
A sigh, and he sticks his nose a little further in the air. "I suppose we'll find out tomorrow. Have a good... whatever."
Saying his name in that long-suffering tone again. He dials it back and tries again. "Astarion. You good?" A stupid question, they just walked out of a shitshow. He isn't gonna unhear the desperate way Astarion had decried knowing them, unsee that fucked up room, any time soon. And now the realities of a new world are upon him. Probably he's not good. But Bull doesn't know how to ask what he wants to ask, either.
"What a ridiculous question. Of course I'm good," he says automatically, tone almost defensive, like being suspected of not 'being good' is a horrible accusation. Historically, showing even the slightest hint of authentic emotion has been like bleeding into a pool filled with sharks. Honesty is just another word for weakness.
But he does feel very much not-good: he'd been certain he was going to die or worse not fifteen minutes ago, and despite the relief he feels at having clipped his leash, he now has to contend with the fact that he's been dropped into a world he knows very little about. So, he admits, still defensive as if he expects to be mocked, "I'm adjusting."
He picks at a loose thread at the elbow of his shirt. Maybe there's a town nearby where he can purchase a needle and thread. "Tonight was quite... thrilling." To put it lightly.
"Tonight was a shitshow." Even he knows that, and his baseline is kinda warped.
There's still an overenthusiastic Unseen Servant or two lingering, one holding hot water and towels, another with a plate of pastries. A third is biding its time trying to give Astarion a full tea set.
Bull ignores them. "But we're here. We did it. That guy," dropping the your boss, he's pretty sure that was some Tevinter Magisterium slavery crap, "Is gonna find out we cleared his vault and he won't be able to do shit about it."
Astarion's mouth twitches like he's trying not to smile. "He'll be furious." And entirely powerless to reach Astarion here. He can feel it—or not feel it as the case may be, a constant tugging in the back of his brain that isn't there anymore. Like he's had someone poking and prodding at him for centuries, and they've only just relented.
"It was very..." Astarion waffles for a moment, scratching his jaw. Heroic? Maybe. Dumb? Certainly. "...unexpected for you to come."
It could have made everything a thousand times worse had they not managed to escape like that, and the thought of that rankles—but he can't deny that he likes it, too, the feeling of having had someone in his corner, even if it was probably only out of some misplaced sense of owing him for the coin.
"Very dashing, really, but let's try to avoid any more courageous battles from here on out."
Dashing makes Bull snort softly, skeptical and pleased. "Wasn't gonna leave you behind," he says, quiet but intense about it. It's not solely personal principle: he's also aware that they were waiting in his rooms, that Szarr was asking about him; Astarion could have fucked him over and didn't.
But this is getting too much like talking about feelings which he'd personally prefer to do never. He leans forward, pushes himself up out of the chair slowly, groaning, careful on his feet like he's still a little dizzy. "Okay. You think these freaky fuckers can find a bath in my size?" They scatter like excited birds, already popping soap in little shapes out of nowhere, and Bull nods. Flatly: "Great. What can't magic do."
"Good," Astarion comments primly, "you could use one." Can't be too nice.
He takes a step back toward the stairs, sidestepping another Unseen Servant that attempts to offer him a spot of tea. Not really his drink. "Make sure to scrub behind the ears." He should probably say a lot more—this is the kind of situation in which people offer gratitude, he thinks—but he has no practice in that sort of thing, and the thought of trying is too humiliating. So:
"I'll see you tomorrow, then. Dark and late." As opposed to bright and early.
He pauses in the doorway, like he's thinking of saying something else, but he ends up changing his mind and muttering, "Avenge me if one of these invisible guys drowns me."
They don't, obviously - he does fall asleep in the tub and very nearly drowns himself, but ends up making it to the irritatingly comfortable bed, gets the most sleep he's had in weeks.
Gale's up first — Astarion can either corner him alone or walk into Bull explaining a brief history of the Fereldan Mage Circles to an increasingly horrified wizard.
Astarion's trance is not restful, exactly, but it is significantly less torturous than usual. Given that he needs to rest for less time than the others need to sleep, he spends the rest of the time skulking around the pop-up mansion, snooping on Gale's belongings and ordering the Unseen Servants to do stupid things just because he can.
At least, until he hears the sound of Gale and Bull's voices carry, and then he practically runs into the room.
"You're boring the wizard," he says despite having no idea what they're talking about. Please, not his vampirism. "I'm sure he's ready to go by now! After all, he's so very important; he must have lots of obligations back home, yes?"
"I cannot deny," Gale says, "That I would like to be on my way — a Weave without Mystra's presence in its essence unnerves me, and I wish to return and seek her counsel. We have been searching, you see, for the last parts of her after the Spellplague, and I had hoped that this unknown realm might provide a new clue as to any magics not yet returned to her bosom."
"Right," says Bull, scratching beside his nose. "Mystra's bosom." Gale clears his throat.
"Not that I intend to rush you!" he adds. "You are both welcome guests. But if you're hoping to travel by night," and here a meaningful glance at Astarion, "Then I'm afraid it's time we say our farewells."
Astarion gives Gale a meaningful glance, too, one that says keep your mouth shut or I'll crush your crystal balls. A moment of hostility, and then he smiles, pleasant. Even waves. "Farewell!"
The moment Gale is gone—and they're unfortunately back out into, ugh, nature—he relaxes, tension seeping out of him. "I thought he'd never leave." On top of the whole 'figured out Astarion's horrible secret' thing, he's just sort of irritating.
"But! Now that he has." Astarion looks into the distance with his darkvision, squinting. "How far would you say that lovely fortress of yours is? An hour?" Hopefully: "Half hour?"
"Gotta find out where the fuck we are, first," says Bull. He can't see in the dark, so he's walking quickly while it's still twilight, following the field's fence, hoping to find the farmhouse of whoever owns the druffalo and steal a light. He looks a lot better than he did yesterday, confident and alert.
"Still, I'd adjust your expectations. You know how to ride a horse?" He knows Astarion is a city boy, and is now a little more aware of his complicated situation, but he acts like the kind of guy whose family owns a stable.
Astarion has no idea if he knows how to ride a horse. To say so would be embarrassing, so instead he says, "I don't care for horses. Temperamental beasts." Like looking in a mirror. "I thought I'd just ride on your back instead."
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But if there's anything he knows about Cazador, it's that Astarion will end up taking the blame for all of this no matter what he does. He feels an ice cold shot of fear at that, too, and— well, fuck it. He's doomed either way, so he might as well try to scramble his way out of this like the rat that he is.
So, he shoots out the door and into the hallway himself, pushing past the wizard with a sharp elbow to his side. As he bounds down the hall, Petras emerges from the dormitories first, fingers curled around a dagger like he's itching for a fight. If Astarion were the empathetic type, he'd think that he could hardly blame him, because Astarion would be eager to prove himself loyal in this situation, too— but he's not the empathetic type, so instead Astarion kicks him in the groin.
"Gods, you— asshole," Petras chokes out.
He'd love to stick around and gloat, but Astarion can hear the cracking of ice from the kennels, shards of it pelting out into the hall from the doorway, and Cazador's furious, "Kill them already, you halfwits."
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Bull is with Astarion, running for his life even though the head wound is sheeting blood down his grey skin. Gale bellows some complicated Latin phrase and pops down a celestial to start handing out radiant damage, before Misty-Stepping up to the next floor so he can start raining fiery death on the vampires as they all nicely cluster in fireball range for him. Several copies of himself spring from nowhere.
Bull is slightly concerned they're going to lose the portal wizard, but he seems to be handling himself — not a huge surprise for someone who can charge 15k gold for a single spell. Fleeing isn't usually his go to, but this is a shit place to fight, narrow corridors, people popping out of doors, so he puts it all into barrelling up the stairs instead of fighting. And he wants to get Astarion out of here before sunrise — they're cutting it really fucking close though.
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The happiness passes quickly, though. As they turn into the entryway, one of the servants chucks a vase their way; Astarion narrowly manages to sidestep the projectile decor, responding in kind by picking up a heavy paperweight and hurling it. It hits the servant square in the face, and he crumples.
It's usually deathly quiet in the palace, but now it's so loud, the sounds of shouting and magic echoing off the walls. If that weren't enough to give Astarion a migraine, he can smell the coppery tinge of Bull's blood in the air, so hungry that it makes him nauseated. He shakes his head, willing the hollow ache away.
"Tell me you have that damned fork," he hisses, because he needs to be out of this plane of existence yesterday.
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"I think it might be best if we all put Baldur's Gate behind us," Gale says as he appears from nowhere, hair a lightning-singed mess, clearly including himself in that. "I did not expect to be antagonising a vampire lord today. Not my best showing. If you'll link hands, gentlemen? Quickly now." He taps the tuning fork to make it sing, takes one of their hands in each of his, and it's almost anticlimatic as in the space of six seconds they blink out of one plane and into another, the first rays of the sunrise cresting to light the empty space.
And then they pop out into a muddy field, lit by Thedas' two moons, startling a herd of dozing domesticated druffalo, who immediately grunt and snort and start moving away from this sudden incursion in one mass of bovine fur and horns. "Marvellous," says Gale, dropping their hands to clap his, once, smug. "Though I did hope we'd come out in a city. Farm animals are a good sign for some sort of civilization, I suppose, however rural. Well, as you left everything back in my rooms, I'll do you a good turn, and help you set up camp, since you do look as though you could use a rest—"
Bull isn't listening, really. He has to remind himself that he survived the rift that had taken him to Baldur's Gate so he'll survive this too, but right now it doesn't feel like it. Teleportation just does something to his insides, like how some people get sick on boats. The nausea mixes confusingly with the pain of his injuries and the first low stirrings of a feeling too big for his chest to contain, and he doesn't let go of Astarion's hand. "Hey," he says, quiet to Astarion under Gale's carrying on. "Welcome to Thedas."
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Gods, he can't believe Bull actually came. He's not as smart as Astarion thought.
All of that, and the obnoxious wizard won't stop talking. Astarion slips away from Bull, crouching down with his head between his knees. Let them all think he's just nauseated from the interplanar travel.
"I think I'm going to vomit," he says, and the only reason he doesn't is because he has nothing inside to retch up.
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Gale is still rambling on, doodling arcane symbols in the air to test the difference in the Weave, and probably making half the demons in the Fade perk their ears up.
Bull takes a few deep breaths of bracing air, relying on old trainings to ignore his stomach trying to climb out his throat. "Think we're somewhere in Fereldan. Might wanna go easy on the magic, people here are uh..." how can he explain this to someone from the world they just came from. "Superstitious."
"Not to worry," Gale says. "A night to recover and then I'll be on my way, I think." And then before Bull can ask where he expects to be recovering in the middle of a field, Gale sketches a door out of nowhere, shimmering amidst the grass. One more Gale ex Machina for the road: he upcasts a Magnificent Mansion, somewhere much like his tower to relax and regain his spell slots. But Bull and Astarion can use it too, one night's respite before trying to make their way to Skyhold.
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All problems for tomorrow. Astarion stands, the world spinning slightly less now. Hopefully, this Ferelden is close to wherever Skyhold is. (Are they cities? Countries? Fuck if he knows. He probably should have asked more questions.)
But he can see the slight glow of the sun now, feels a faint prickling on his skin. Astarion, as quick as anything, heads toward the doors of the makeshift dwelling, then— stops. He hasn't been invited in.
"Ah." Fuck. "What do you say we all go inside, hm?" A pause. "Really, say it."
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Bull is aware that something is going over his horns, some additional tension here he isn't getting. Add it to the laundry list of things he wants to ask Astarion about — right now he's more interested in sitting the fuck down, and he does so in the first chair that presents itself. An Unseen Servant comes over and tries to start tending to his wounds, and Bull shoos it away, well shot of freaky demon crap for the day and honestly on the verge of going back out to make like his namesake and sleep in the grass with the druffalo.
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He absolutely does not want Gale blabbing about his vampiricism to Bull, not when he could still choose to leave Astarion on the side of the road on a plane he's wholly unfamiliar with. Bull probably doesn't like him enough yet to overlook the 'bloodsucking creature of the night' thing; he'll have to work on that before Bull figures it out himself.
For now: "What a night! I think we should all turn in. Alone."
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Bull watches him retreat to his purple-doored bedroom, then looks back to Astarion. "I told you. Annoying." Gale was made in a lab to piss him off. Anyway, Bull clearly isn't planning on getting out of the chair yet, the tips of his horns resting on the wall behind him. Running on empty after the constant hustle to get them here.
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"Mm. Good night, then. Or good morning, as the case may be."
And Astarion turns to go... well, he's not sure, since Gale didn't actually bother to explain where any of the facilities are. It turns out to be unimportant, because Astarion turns back the next second.
"Don't you need a potion, or a healer of some sort?" Or, like, bandages? Or maybe some soap and water? Anything? "It's just. You're trickling."
He's very aware of it, both because it makes his stomach lurch and because no one has ever sustained a head injury for him before. That was really stupid. He's not at all pleased by it.
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Astarion crosses his arms, glancing off to look at a little figurine of what appears to be a winged cat in flight. This Gale fellow has some strange knick-knacks.
"I was merely"—trying to ask if Bull is okay, but he doesn't know how to actually do that, and now he feels a little stupid for even trying—"curious if you'd sustained any brain damage, that's all."
A sigh, and he sticks his nose a little further in the air. "I suppose we'll find out tomorrow. Have a good... whatever."
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Saying his name in that long-suffering tone again. He dials it back and tries again. "Astarion. You good?" A stupid question, they just walked out of a shitshow. He isn't gonna unhear the desperate way Astarion had decried knowing them, unsee that fucked up room, any time soon. And now the realities of a new world are upon him. Probably he's not good. But Bull doesn't know how to ask what he wants to ask, either.
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But he does feel very much not-good: he'd been certain he was going to die or worse not fifteen minutes ago, and despite the relief he feels at having clipped his leash, he now has to contend with the fact that he's been dropped into a world he knows very little about. So, he admits, still defensive as if he expects to be mocked, "I'm adjusting."
He picks at a loose thread at the elbow of his shirt. Maybe there's a town nearby where he can purchase a needle and thread. "Tonight was quite... thrilling." To put it lightly.
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There's still an overenthusiastic Unseen Servant or two lingering, one holding hot water and towels, another with a plate of pastries. A third is biding its time trying to give Astarion a full tea set.
Bull ignores them. "But we're here. We did it. That guy," dropping the your boss, he's pretty sure that was some Tevinter Magisterium slavery crap, "Is gonna find out we cleared his vault and he won't be able to do shit about it."
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"It was very..." Astarion waffles for a moment, scratching his jaw. Heroic? Maybe. Dumb? Certainly. "...unexpected for you to come."
It could have made everything a thousand times worse had they not managed to escape like that, and the thought of that rankles—but he can't deny that he likes it, too, the feeling of having had someone in his corner, even if it was probably only out of some misplaced sense of owing him for the coin.
"Very dashing, really, but let's try to avoid any more courageous battles from here on out."
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But this is getting too much like talking about feelings which he'd personally prefer to do never. He leans forward, pushes himself up out of the chair slowly, groaning, careful on his feet like he's still a little dizzy. "Okay. You think these freaky fuckers can find a bath in my size?" They scatter like excited birds, already popping soap in little shapes out of nowhere, and Bull nods. Flatly: "Great. What can't magic do."
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He takes a step back toward the stairs, sidestepping another Unseen Servant that attempts to offer him a spot of tea. Not really his drink. "Make sure to scrub behind the ears." He should probably say a lot more—this is the kind of situation in which people offer gratitude, he thinks—but he has no practice in that sort of thing, and the thought of trying is too humiliating. So:
"I'll see you tomorrow, then. Dark and late." As opposed to bright and early.
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He pauses in the doorway, like he's thinking of saying something else, but he ends up changing his mind and muttering, "Avenge me if one of these invisible guys drowns me."
They don't, obviously - he does fall asleep in the tub and very nearly drowns himself, but ends up making it to the irritatingly comfortable bed, gets the most sleep he's had in weeks.
Gale's up first — Astarion can either corner him alone or walk into Bull explaining a brief history of the Fereldan Mage Circles to an increasingly horrified wizard.
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At least, until he hears the sound of Gale and Bull's voices carry, and then he practically runs into the room.
"You're boring the wizard," he says despite having no idea what they're talking about. Please, not his vampirism. "I'm sure he's ready to go by now! After all, he's so very important; he must have lots of obligations back home, yes?"
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"Right," says Bull, scratching beside his nose. "Mystra's bosom." Gale clears his throat.
"Not that I intend to rush you!" he adds. "You are both welcome guests. But if you're hoping to travel by night," and here a meaningful glance at Astarion, "Then I'm afraid it's time we say our farewells."
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The moment Gale is gone—and they're unfortunately back out into, ugh, nature—he relaxes, tension seeping out of him. "I thought he'd never leave." On top of the whole 'figured out Astarion's horrible secret' thing, he's just sort of irritating.
"But! Now that he has." Astarion looks into the distance with his darkvision, squinting. "How far would you say that lovely fortress of yours is? An hour?" Hopefully: "Half hour?"
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"Still, I'd adjust your expectations. You know how to ride a horse?" He knows Astarion is a city boy, and is now a little more aware of his complicated situation, but he acts like the kind of guy whose family owns a stable.
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