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.
"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)
"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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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?"
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"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?"
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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.
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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?
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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."
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"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.