nibbling | open post pt. 2.

At first it's too dark to see Astarion's beat face, Bull still lighting the lantern while he walks. "Tying up the horses we're gonna buy," Bull says, and then, with a hint of a smile, "But I'm open to other suggestions." Yeah.

Once he has light, though, he glances over at Astarion, the red marks on his cheek. "You run into something out there?" he asks, because if it was a demon that's concerning and if it was an animal that's funny. "Or just get slapped by the farmer's daughter?"

Usually, a joke like that would garner—at best—a forceful exhale approximating humor. Now, Astarion laughs like it's sooo funny. He's starting to realize that the power dynamics here aren't in his favor; before, Bull had to include him because of his access to coin, but now there's nothing stopping him if he finds Astarion too annoying and wants to abandon him on the side of the road.

So, obsequious laughter, and a sidestep of how he really got injured.

"I... tried to pet one of those... cows." Not a cow, but he's not sure what else to call it. "Nasty little thing attacked me unprovoked."

Eager to get off that particular subject: "Go on, then. Which way to civilization?"

Bull's still thinking about that laugh. It's not the first time one of them has made a dirty joke, or Bull's said something flirty just to keep his hand in. It's the first time Astarion's acted friendly, though, and he can't tell if it's residual mania or he thinks Bull expects gratitude. Hm.

Either way, he pays so much attention to that he doesn't think much about Astarion petting druffalo.

"This way," he says, already walking. "We'll requisition mounts at Redcliffe, ride to Haven, I'll send word ahead so we have an escort up the mountain. Not gonna be a half hour stroll, but if we'd come out in Par Vollen we would have had a month's sea journey ahead of us, so the mage got us pretty close."

The meager amount of blood in his system helps a little, but he's still quite fatigued even just from the events of yesterday, and not particularly confident about keeping up physically until they can steal—he assumes??? What else does 'requisition' mean—some horses. (Not confident about whether he can actually ride one, either, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it.) Another reason to be on his absolute most likable behavior now. If he's too slow, Bull might think twice about all of this, but if he can endear himself enough, he might receive some sympathy.

Honestly, he doesn't really hear the details of their upcoming journey. He's too busy forcing himself to trudge after Bull.

"And— you know, I hate to point this out, but those yokels didn't give you any tents." Meaning that if the sun comes up before they reach shelter, he'll burn to a crisp. "So it seems we're on a bit of a time crunch here."

"Redcliffe within the hour," Bull promises. "Re-lax, I'm not gonna letcha get a sunburn." Or however that goes. He isn't really taking Astarion's "allergy" too seriously, but he hasn't forgotten it.

Bull keeps his pace steady, a little slower than he'd move normally. Not for Astarion's sake, it's a soldier's even lope, conserving energy for the long walk. When he talks, it's with the same paced rhythm, making sure not to lose all his breath to it. "So you're gonna need a cover story for why you don't know anything about anything, because trust me, you talk about portals, people think you're crazy." Something about his tone and look conveys awareness that Astarion himself thought that of Bull's story back in the sewers.

"So. If anyone asks just say you were enslaved up north in Tevinter, but you escaped, and then say uh, 'thank the Maker'. People who are weird about the pointy ears will relax some if they think you're a good Maker-fearing Andrastean, that's pretty much the big religion in these parts, and they think anyone believing in anything else is outsider shit." He can go on like this for a full walk — he's for sure mother-henning, Astarion may feel like Bull could leave him behind at any second but Bull's major concern is that he's brought Astarion here to be murdered.

To his credit, Astarion does actually try to listen and learn. It's a lot of information to take in—what's Tevinter? What's the Maker? What's Andrastean?—but he does his best to internalize it, considering that the last thing he wants is to have someone come at him with a swinging pitchfork right after finding his freedom. A little self-consciously, he smooths his curls over the points of his ears, as if that'll hide his elfishness.

"I'm not really religious," he says idly, but he echoes the words regardless, trying the feel out in his mouth: "Thank the Maker."

His nose wrinkles slightly. He hates the idea of thanking any sort of deity for what he did. No god got him here. He and Bull and some dandy little wizard did that, actually.

"Is that where Par Vollen is, then? Tevinter?" He kind of hates how stupid he sounds asking.

"Nah, Par Vollen's even more north than Tevinter," Bull says. "They... squabble." Which is certainly one way to describe the war that defined his life.

He doesn't seem bothered by the question, though. "Hey, uh, I know this is gonna be a lot," he says, fairly casually, but he really can sympathise given he went through this in reverse. "But your average farmer can't place the Tevinter Imperium on a map, it's just a distant country where the scary mages live. You're smart," Who knows where he got that idea, "Skyhold has a library. My guys will look out for you." He doesn't actually say something so broadly reassuring as you'll be fine but it's clearly intended.

This should be reassuring, the idea that Bull and 'his guys', whoever those might be, are going to help Astarion out. Astarion is a cynic, though, and it only makes him more convinced that he has to watch out so that he doesn't fuck this up.

"You are," he says, a little slowly, trying to pick his words carefully, "so very sweet." He bats his eyes a couple times for good measure.

"...By the by," he adds, very casual. "What sort of creatures might I expect to run into out here? You know, ah. Gelatinous cubes..." Waving a hand, like it's whatever. "Mephits..." A split-second pause, and his eyes flick to Bull's face for just a moment. "Vampires? Any of those— awful, awful things?"

"Three for three on shit I've never heard of," Bull tells him with a sidelong grin, though 'gelatinous cube' is particularly evocative and he thinks he mighta heard the word 'vampire' at some point but it isn't ringing a bell. "Nah, it's mostly demons. Sometimes darkspawn, this side of the mountains — tainted creatures, like ogres and hurlock. But then," long-suffering, "It'll be demons again."

Oh. Bull goes on about some variety of monsters, but Astarion is barely listening. So, he doesn't know anything about vampires. Then perhaps he should get ahead of all of this before Bull finds things out in a less pleasant way. He can make this sound totally normal.

"Mm," he says so it sounds like he was listening. "By the way, I suppose I should mention. Do you remember how I told you about my, erm, drow heritage?" It's better than admitting that he's undead. "Well, drow also have... special dietary restrictions."

His tone is as forcibly nonchalant as he can make it. This is all very normal.

"So, ah, I can really only eat... very rare meat."

It's an automatic impulse to immediately flick back through his memory to try and remember if he's ever seen Astarion eating anything; weird that he didn't notice that.

"Huh," he says, considers asking how rare is rare but when he glances over his eyes catch on Astarion's marked up cheek. "Petting the druffalo, Astarion?" He at least sounds amused, rather than freaked out. It's hard to freak him out. "Okay. Guess that explains your teeth."

Astarion instantly presses a hand to his cheek to cover up the scratch marks, but it's too late. At least Bull doesn't seem horrified; it's a pleasant surprise, this going in any way well. It certainly helps that he has no concept of bloodsucking creatures of the night coming to seduce and kill poor, innocent virgins.

"Yes, that's— all drow have sharp teeth." Somewhere, on another plane, Lolth is pissed off that Astarion is using drowhood as his excuse. "And... you met Cazador."

The name is uttered like a curse. Better than 'master'.

"Obviously, he wasn't respectful of my particular dietary needs, and— well, let's just say I'm famished." It actually feels like a huge weight off of his shoulders to admit, even if it isn't the whole truth. He's fucking hungry. "I was hoping that maybe we could find some livestock in this Redwall place."

"Yeah," Bull agrees, kind of automatically while he chews that over. "Maybe before then, don't want you eating the horses." He's kidding! Though not about finding something in advance. Livestock near the keep will belong to someone, but there are animals in the Hinterlands. "You picky? I can try and catch you a nug"

No, he's not picky—he just tried to eat a druffalo, whatever that is. But he would like to maintain some dignity here, so: "...What in the sweet hells is a nug?"

"It's uh..." Bull gestures in the air with a hand that isn't holding the lantern, trying to sketch out a shape. "Like if a pig was a rabbit," he says. Decides not to mention the tiny pink hands it has instead of paws. "Dwarves breed 'em for eating, but they're wild and prolific all over the south."

A shrug. "They'll come investogate if we put food down. Anything else... you'd probably be better at catching creatures at this time of night than I am," he admits. Astarion has stealth for days, and Bull is pretty sure he can see in the dark, maybe as part of his Drow heritage.

This description is not helpful. Astarion imagines some sort of pig with fur and a cottontail. Kind of gross, but again— he can't be picky.

Although in reality he's jumping at the chance to eat anything, he makes a show of thinking about it, the only suggestion that he's performing the way that he shifts restlessly on his feet, antsy and anxious to feed. Particularly after having to be around all of Bull's very tasty-smelling blood yesterday.

His verdict: "That would be acceptable, I think."

"Hold this," Bull says, handing him the lantern and rummaging through the pack for the cheese. They're overprovisioned if this is food for one, so he doesn't feel bad about moving off to the edge of the light — "Stay there, stay quiet," — and scattering the food on the ground, hunkering down alongside it like a big boulder and waiting, half in the light and half out of it.

Sure enough, there's a crackle in the bushes and a squeaking as an awful hairless pink creature emerges all snuffling, and Bull scoops it up. It's the reverse of Astarion's imagination — if a rabbit had a pig's naked flesh and snorting hiccough squeals. It wriggles, noisy, but Bull's got it one handed.

"There we go." There's already another one trying to get the cheese the first nug didn't reach. "You want me to kill it?" He can never tell with Astarion, though in retrospect maybe that observed squeamishness was hunger.

It's a very strange feeling, having someone help him feed. Hunger has always been a tool of punishment, nourishment something he had to scrape and beg and plead for. It's a fucking ugly little naked rabbit thing that Bull scoops up, but Astarion can't help feeling— well, he's not sure. It's another one of those foreign feelings that he can't recall ever feeling before. Most positive emotions fall under that category.

He holds his hands out for the squirming thing. "Sweet of you to offer, but—" It's better when his dinner is still alive. Bull has been very nonchalant about all of this, but just in case, Astarion doesn't want to scare him off by saying something vampire-y. "I'll take it from here."

A hesitant pause. "It can be quite an... unconventional process. Perhaps it might be better for your delicate sensibilities for you to turn around." The 'delicate sensibilities' are a joke, but the rest is a genuine offer.

"Nope," says Bull, pulling out an apple from the pack and taking a big bite. It's normal and fine if he's eating too, right?

Besides, he's curious. And difficult to disgust. It would be a different ballpark if Astarion did blood magic with the nug, but instead he just drinks it like a fucked up waterskin, and in the world's most anticlimactic vampire reveal, Bull's reaction is mostly the body language equivalent of oh, okay. Keeps eating his apple.

The nug makes horrible little squealing noises as he bites down, and it makes him feel even more worried that Bull will be repulsed by this, but then there's warm blood in his mouth and he forgets to be self-conscious. He feeds like a starving dog just tossed scraps and only comes back into himself when the poor little thing in his hands is lifeless and pale. Gods. He could use about fifty more of these, but it's definitely a start.

He abruptly remembers to be self-conscious again, eyes flicking to Bull's face to look for signs of disgust. Instead of backing away in horror or maybe vomiting, he's just... eating. Astarion blinks a couple times and lowers the exsanguinated nug, a little bit of blood smeared on his chin.

"You're not... at all put off?"

Edited (didn't like that sentence. it was mocking me.) 2025-10-19 03:19 (UTC)

Bull shrugs.

"Nah. I drank dragon blood to become a Reaver," he says (really not a tiefling barbarian). "I'm not gonna join you but it doesn't bother me any. Food's food."

He's at least passingly aware that it isn't that uncomplicated for Astarion, who looks genuinely bewildered. But hey, that's also why he's being so casual about this: it's way more important that Astarion feels comfortable than any automatic flinch Bull might have against like, cruelty to nugs. But that kinda feelings shit is carefully compartmentalised so he never accidentally thinks about it. He finishes his apple in another couple of bites, core and all (so who here is the freak, actually). "We good?"

Astarion blinks another time, having difficulty with the cognitive dissonance between what he's known to be true for two hundred years—all people are awful, and they'll turn on him the moment he slips up—and the reality of someone looking his dark secret in the face and shrugging. ...Well, it's only part of his dark secret. If Bull knew anything about vampires, he might have a different reaction. No, Astarion decides, he definitely would, and it's only because he's clueless as to what Astarion really is that he's being nice.

He tosses the dead nug on the ground. Admittedly, he's somewhat put off by Bull eating that apple core, but he's too cognizant of his tenuous place on this plane to say anything about that.

"Yes. I feel much better." True. More energized, even his mood is somewhat improved. He's still a bottomless pit of hunger, but he doesn't feel quite as much like he's wasting away. "Thank you," he says, a little awkward; showing gratitude feels like speaking a foreign language. He quickly moves past it. "Now, let's scurry along. If we don't get to civilization before sunrise, I really will have to use that riding crop on you."

Well. He'll be a pile of ash, actually, but that's not as fun.

The gratitude gets a stoic nod, a your welcome, any time kind of tip of the chin as they fall back into the rhythm of walking. The mention of the crop, however, elicits a low chuckle, deep filthy bass. Clears his throat after, hums.

After that it's just walking. Chatting a little, still, Bull mostly sketching out who Andraste was, the Chant of the Light leading to Maker-worship being done in Chantries, basic stuff he's picked up from working around Orlais and the Free Marches before he ended up with the Inquisitor. It's not any more interesting to him than it is to Astarion, and he still tends to explain shit like he's telling tavern stories instead of teaching, but it passes the time.

At Redcliffe he requisitions horses and supplies from well-organised Inquisition auxiliary forces who do seem to know of him; apparently instead of stealing it means signing papers saying the Inquisition will send coin later. He sends a bird to Leliana with the invoice and the broadest possible strokes of information. Carefully doesn't mention the newest member of the Chargers is something of a threat to her pet nugs.

The horses are soldier's stock, bred to carry men in plate armour and not to spook in combat, relaxing Bull's unspoken concerns that he might be too fuckin' big for anything but an asaarash or his beloved dracolich back at the keep. Stands with his own mount packing the saddlebags to have even weight distribution while he watches, subtly, how Astarion handles a horse. Just in case he needs a leg up, right?

The horse can smell either the undeath or the city slicker on him. It's like it knows he doesn't belong here. It's not enough to spook a well-bred and well-trained horse into running off, but the thing is clearly wary: ears pinned, whale-eyed. The stupid thing won't just listen to him— "Stay still," he hisses threateningly, a whisper just for the horse, "or I'll eat you next." That doesn't do wonders for their working relationship, either.

Actually getting on the creature is even worse, especially considering the pressure; he's neurotically stressed knowing that if he can't ride this thing, he's going to be stuck walking. He's got one foot in the stirrup, one leg haphazardly thrown across the saddle, and he's desperately trying to maneuver himself up onto the horse's back while it grows increasingly more uncomfortable.

"Can I get another one? This one is defective, I think."

The Iron Bull very carefully doesn't laugh at him, but his grey eye is sparkling a little as he rounds in front of the horse, clucks soothingly at her. Rubs her flank with a murmured easy, easy that's probably very reminiscent of his whole vibe at the worst part of their little heist.

"Lemme give you a hand," he says once the horse isn't dancing her hind legs so much, and does, broad on Astarion's thigh to hoist him further into the saddle. Takes an ankle and guides his foot gently back to the tangled stirrup. Like this they're of a height, but Bull busies himself checking all the saddle straps so it doesn't just slip Astarion right off again.

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