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.
Astarion tenses involuntarily at being touched despite its almost ridiculous amount of innocence, has to force himself to relax. He feels embarrassed at his reaction, and embarrassed at how stupid he must look in front of Bull, and even more embarrassed because now that he's in the saddle he doesn't know how to make this stupid thing move. He must have, once—it seems like the sort of thing he would have done, summering in the Dales and riding expensive horses—but it's yet another thing lost to two hundred years of darkness.
"I told you that I hate these stupid animals," he says, taking his upset out on the poor horse.
"Be polite, she's about to carry you a long way," Bull chastens him. "Hold on with your knees, keep your hips loose. You've got this."
With that he's returning to his own horse, who is picking up the other's nerves, snorting hard. He swings into his own saddle, nudges the horse to start moving and Astarion's falls into following. Just a couple hours until they'll have to stop and set up camp, but that's still a long beginner ride.
With no idea how to actually make the horse stop, he completely depends on his following Bull's lead. Symbolic, really, considering he's forced to follow Bull's lead here, too. He doesn't make much conversation during the ride, too focused on trying not to fall off and get his head trampled or some other equally embarrassing way to die. Finally, though, about an hour in:
"Gods, this is torture." He's trying to be on his best behavior, but unfortunately, he also has piss poor 'mild discomfort' tolerance. "You didn't say it was going to chafe."
Bull laughs, sorry, but it's sheepish. "Forgot," he admits; not just because he's been riding a long time but because qunari are thick-skinned: "Not really a problem for me."
He drops his horse back a little, so that his is just a nose ahead of Astarion's, though both horses have settled into the journey and are mostly following a road that they've travelled far more than their riders. Leans back, reins slack in one hand. "You're gonna be miserable tomorrow," he says bluntly, since chafing aside, he knows how many rarely used muscles are gonna get loud once Astarion's off the horse. "More miserable. I'll pick some elfroot, chewing it'll take the edge off."
Uuuuuuuggghhh. Astarion groans, shifting uncomfortably on the horse. He really does hate these things. "Maybe I should have given the piggyback ride more consideration." At least he would have been able to use the horns to hold onto; his back hurts from trying to stay upright.
"You're sure you don't happen to know a teensy bit of healing magic?"
Bull gives him a flat look, even though he has kind of come around on the stuff after experiencing a world where it's relatively safe. "No magic." Aside from the uh, dragon blood Reaver stuff but since there's no demons involved that just doesn't count to him.
Bull makes an executive decision since the night's mostly gone, and slows his horse down, starts scanning for somewhere amidst the bucolic fields of green and hazel that might work for a camp. Looking for something to tie the horses to, maybe a stream so Astarion can soak his chafed thighs. Or injure himself on running water. Whichever. Eventually he veers them off the road and onto the grass.
"Okay, we're gonna stop. Tighten your legs, lean back a little, put some pressure on the reins." He demonstrates on his own horse with a soft whoa.
sends this out into the no notif ether and thank god I did because I posted prematurely!!
Astarion would be offended at Bull making the executive decision to stop without even asking, but he does hate this, and it's sort of nice to have someone making unilateral decisions that benefit him for once instead of the other way around. So, he just says, "Do I have to say whoa, too?" Kind of lame!
He's fairly sure the horse stops mostly because its companion has. All the same, he feels a little thrill of pride at having made it happen (whether or not it's earned). He's awkward trying to maneuver off, probably because he never maneuvered on without help. "And now I'll just... jump off, as you do."
Bull ambles over to take his horse's reins. Taps Astarion's leg just above the ankle. "Weight in the stirrup, swing your other leg over to join it. I'll catcha if you fall off." Solemn about it.
Astarion's really not sure how to take the fact that Bull hasn't mocked him once, even when he's had ample opportunity. On one hand, it feels strangely nice. On the other hand, it feels too good to be true, like the other shoe will drop any second. He follows Bull's instruction, not quite falling off but certainly stumbling a little as he hops off, owing mostly to his sore legs.
He'd rather be the one who gets to control when the shoe drops, so he turns back to Bull, saying, "Well, go on already. Tell me how incompetent I've been."
Bull glances back at him as he leads the horses to be roped to the tree he picked, giving them a once-over as he goes. "You did great," he disagrees. "She didn't throw you, right?" Big win for a first ride. Bull reaches into the saddlebags. "Come feed her one of these apples. Flat palm." Demonstrating on his own how to balance the fruit so the horse can just pick it up with her mouth.
"...Oh." What the fuck? He's so thrown by the complete lack of reaction that he can't even be mad about it. What, Bull isn't even angry that Astarion assumed the worst of him? It's unpleasant, but Astarion almost wishes he was—anger, he knows how to respond to. A calm, even keel, he doesn't. Better the devil you know, and all that.
He's slow to gravitate to Bull's side, mostly because his legs already hurt. When his horse takes the apple, her mouth tickles his palm, and the corner of his mouth tugs up slightly. Slightly!!
"You know, when we met, I expected you to be just another boring mercenary type," he says, idly. "But you're rather interesting. Are all your people like you?" He doesn't clarify what he means by 'like you'.
Regardless of what he means, Bull has to admit the answer is probably no. "Nah," he says quietly, feels himself smiling as well, not at all immune to interesting from Astarion. Feeds his own horse an apple, rubs the long nose a little before moving around to unbuckle the saddlebags. Keeping his movements even more chill than usual on the horses' behalf.
"I got kicked out of my people," he says. He isn't sure he wants to get into explaining qunari and the qun, bas and Tal-Vashoth, but adds nonchalant: "Supposed to kill me on sight. Luckily qunari are pretty rare this far south."
Yeesh. Astarion grimaces; sounds complicated. He wants to ask what in the hells Bull did to get 'kill on sight' as a punishment, but even he knows that's annoyingly nosy, and while he wouldn't usually mind, he's hesitant to give Bull any reason to want to be rid of him.
"Mm." He copies Bull's movements, attempting to pet his horse on the snout. It's awkward, a little disjointed. He hasn't shown affection to another living being in centuries. "Well, being an exiled rebel is far more raffish than the alternative, anyway."
The horse whickers softly, looking at Astarion with her big wet eyes, then tries to mouth at his fingers in case he has another apple.
Bull also makes a slightly horse-y sound at raffish, brow lifted, gaze lingering for a moment. "Yeah, that's what I figure too. C'mon, let me show you what elfroot looks like."
Elfroot, as it turns out, is the flat-leaved weed that's been in abundance along the road, two or three by this tree alone. Bull strips a whole plant, plucking off all but the top leaves. "Every army in every country in Thedas basically runs on this stuff. They brew it up like a tea into a potion, drink it in battle. Burn it in the steam lodge after big battle. Sap can close wounds, roots treat digestive issues. Chew some of the leaves and you'll stop feeling like you got fucked five ways from Sunday." He'll wait until Astarion tries some to mention, "Bitter, though."
Astarion takes the tiniest bite off of a leaf, clearly hesitant even before being told of its bitterness. He hasn't had anything in his mouth that he's had to chew for a very long time, and just the mere texture of something mushy-solid between his teeth makes him want to gag a little. The actual taste is even worse, and he chokes out, "This is disgusting." It does help, though, so he forces himself to keep chewing (albeit not without making some very displeased faces).
There's still a bit of darkness left before the dawn is upon them, but there's no way he's getting back on that horse tonight. So, he leans against the trunk of the tree, hands clasped innocently: "Well. What do you say you pitch a tent?" He really hopes Bull bothered to get some sort of shelter. He probably should have checked. "I'll... supervise."
"You're such a princess," Bull ribs him, but there's something in his voice that says he's dangerously fine with it. They do have a tent and bedrolls, which Bull will unpack and set up on easy autopilot, tapping in pegs with the butt of his axe. Doesn't bother to light a fire since it'll warm up once the sun rises, just hooks the lantern by the tent flap.
"Fucking hate camping," Bull says cheerfully, taking a swig from the waterskin and looking at his handiwork. "Not - the set-up," lest Astarion think that's a jab, "Just miss my own bed. Really counting the days for that reunion." Even his room in the Blushing Mermaid had been too small and closed in for him to ever enjoy being there.
"You know, the day is so long." Actually, he has no idea how long the day is here. Is it the same as on Toril? Guess he'll find out. "How—" He poses languidly against the tree, cringing a little as he puts weight on his still-sore muscles. There's still elfroot in his mouth, and he makes himself swallow it. "However will we pass the time?"
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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.
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"I told you that I hate these stupid animals," he says, taking his upset out on the poor horse.
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With that he's returning to his own horse, who is picking up the other's nerves, snorting hard. He swings into his own saddle, nudges the horse to start moving and Astarion's falls into following. Just a couple hours until they'll have to stop and set up camp, but that's still a long beginner ride.
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"Gods, this is torture." He's trying to be on his best behavior, but unfortunately, he also has piss poor 'mild discomfort' tolerance. "You didn't say it was going to chafe."
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He drops his horse back a little, so that his is just a nose ahead of Astarion's, though both horses have settled into the journey and are mostly following a road that they've travelled far more than their riders. Leans back, reins slack in one hand. "You're gonna be miserable tomorrow," he says bluntly, since chafing aside, he knows how many rarely used muscles are gonna get loud once Astarion's off the horse. "More miserable. I'll pick some elfroot, chewing it'll take the edge off."
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"You're sure you don't happen to know a teensy bit of healing magic?"
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Bull makes an executive decision since the night's mostly gone, and slows his horse down, starts scanning for somewhere amidst the bucolic fields of green and hazel that might work for a camp. Looking for something to tie the horses to, maybe a stream so Astarion can soak his chafed thighs. Or injure himself on running water. Whichever. Eventually he veers them off the road and onto the grass.
"Okay, we're gonna stop. Tighten your legs, lean back a little, put some pressure on the reins." He demonstrates on his own horse with a soft whoa.
sends this out into the no notif ether and thank god I did because I posted prematurely!!
He's fairly sure the horse stops mostly because its companion has. All the same, he feels a little thrill of pride at having made it happen (whether or not it's earned). He's awkward trying to maneuver off, probably because he never maneuvered on without help. "And now I'll just... jump off, as you do."
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He'd rather be the one who gets to control when the shoe drops, so he turns back to Bull, saying, "Well, go on already. Tell me how incompetent I've been."
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He's slow to gravitate to Bull's side, mostly because his legs already hurt. When his horse takes the apple, her mouth tickles his palm, and the corner of his mouth tugs up slightly. Slightly!!
"You know, when we met, I expected you to be just another boring mercenary type," he says, idly. "But you're rather interesting. Are all your people like you?" He doesn't clarify what he means by 'like you'.
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"I got kicked out of my people," he says. He isn't sure he wants to get into explaining qunari and the qun, bas and Tal-Vashoth, but adds nonchalant: "Supposed to kill me on sight. Luckily qunari are pretty rare this far south."
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"Mm." He copies Bull's movements, attempting to pet his horse on the snout. It's awkward, a little disjointed. He hasn't shown affection to another living being in centuries. "Well, being an exiled rebel is far more raffish than the alternative, anyway."
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Bull also makes a slightly horse-y sound at raffish, brow lifted, gaze lingering for a moment. "Yeah, that's what I figure too. C'mon, let me show you what elfroot looks like."
Elfroot, as it turns out, is the flat-leaved weed that's been in abundance along the road, two or three by this tree alone. Bull strips a whole plant, plucking off all but the top leaves. "Every army in every country in Thedas basically runs on this stuff. They brew it up like a tea into a potion, drink it in battle. Burn it in the steam lodge after big battle. Sap can close wounds, roots treat digestive issues. Chew some of the leaves and you'll stop feeling like you got fucked five ways from Sunday." He'll wait until Astarion tries some to mention, "Bitter, though."
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There's still a bit of darkness left before the dawn is upon them, but there's no way he's getting back on that horse tonight. So, he leans against the trunk of the tree, hands clasped innocently: "Well. What do you say you pitch a tent?" He really hopes Bull bothered to get some sort of shelter. He probably should have checked. "I'll... supervise."
Yeah, he's not doing manual labor.
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"Fucking hate camping," Bull says cheerfully, taking a swig from the waterskin and looking at his handiwork. "Not - the set-up," lest Astarion think that's a jab, "Just miss my own bed. Really counting the days for that reunion." Even his room in the Blushing Mermaid had been too small and closed in for him to ever enjoy being there.
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"You know, the day is so long." Actually, he has no idea how long the day is here. Is it the same as on Toril? Guess he'll find out. "How—" He poses languidly against the tree, cringing a little as he puts weight on his still-sore muscles. There's still elfroot in his mouth, and he makes himself swallow it. "However will we pass the time?"
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