morphicpools

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As the world starts to calm a little in the aftermath of the Netherbrain's defeat, Zevlor finds himself at loose ends. For the first several months, he and his Hellrider friends were busy hunting the last of the ilithids and cultists that escaped the battle, and they were merciless. Now, though, that source of adventure has waned, and the remnants of his platoon have gone further south, scouting for new battles to fight. In the meantime, it's been Zevlor's business to guard caravans to and from Halsin's settlement in New Reithwin. The Shadow-cursed lands are cursed no longer, although the remains of battle linger like scars between the cherry blossoms.

On the road from Baldur's Gate to Reithwin, assorted camps and villages have sprung up, and he stops at one spot to refresh himself, only to hear tales of a skulking wanderer causing the residents no end of concern. Not a mindflayer, based on the description, but that doesn't mean he can't cause harm. Zevlor is properly skeptical, of course. Sometimes people are merely territorial without cause for real concern. Still, they ask him for help, and he wouldn't be much of a paladin if he refused.

He's well-armed when he heads to the ruins of a nearby farmstead to look for the man, but he doesn't draw his blade when he gets close. He's alert, wary, but not aggressive.

lost_and_foundry

Barcus Wroot is not lonely. That would be absurd. If anything, he's surrounded by too many people, mostly gnomes, mostly deep gnomes, all of them clamoring for his attention and guidance and advice. He is the leader of a powerful laborer's guild, which is firmly in alliance with an equally powerful church, and he has the ear of Ravengard and all the other gentry. Not to mention their coin, any time he wants to undertake a project for them. Never in his life has demand for his attention been so high.

It feels so empty.

But maybe he's just tired. Burnout happens. He absolutely does not miss Wulbren. Good riddance.

Getting drunk, or even tipsy, is not his style, but he's skirting the line tonight, having had enough whiskey that his ears are ringing slightly. He's not so dazed he doesn't notice the strangeness of the two...men? Talking to the tavernkeeper. One is clearly human, but the other is bigger than an Orthon and the gnome gets distracted wondering how on earth they made it through the doors...

hellrider

He wakes on the cold ground, and sits up, disoriented. There's a wan sunrise beginning in the east, darkness slinking off to hide beneath the trees. Behind him the Shadow-Cursed lands are feeling the light for the first time in years.

He shouldn't be here. He should be...he should be home, shouldn't he? At the farm, getting up to care for the horses, to--

"Anthem!" He's on his feet in an instant, staggering because his body is weak, shaky from the shock of two sets of memory and raw disorientation. Is she here? Did she come with him? Or is he left to make it to Baldur's Gate alone?

lost_and_foundry

The months after the defeat of the Absolute have been nothing short of a whirlwind for Barcus and his Ironhands. Alliances have been formed and strengthened, with the Gondians. They've committed to volunteer work repairing the city's ruined infrastructure, in order to seal their reacceptance into Baldur's Gate. After that, a stream of requests for work from both Upper and Lower City citizenry began to fill their days, and their coffers. The Ironhand-Gondian alliance is still an upstart laborer's guild, but it's already a powerful one.

Fortunately, at this point, most of the hard diplomatic work is complete, and Barcus can unclench a little, take time for his own pet projects, and at long last send a letter home. For years, he's intended to bring his youngest brother to Baldur's Gate as an apprentice, and the timing is right now. What's not right is the fact that the roads all up and down the Sword Coast are still teeming with danger. Even some Mindflayers may have survived, free of the Netherbrain, to find their own way.

He can't go alone, but at the same time, he can't drag his fellow gnomes away from their work. Even if he could, very few are fighters. The only solution is to hire, and so he makes a few discreet inquiries around town.

The upshot of all of it is a meeting in the Elfsong in the early evening. Barcus is waiting at a table, with a mug of ale neglected by his elbow, as he scribbles notes in the margins of a ledger. At this point in his career, he could be wandering around in clothing as ostentatious as Lord Gortash's was, but that sort of thing is no good for working at the forge, and so he cuts a rather unassuming figure, in a brown wool tunic, a plain doublet, and a knit scarf that's a little too long for his small frame. He also has reading glasses, but he must have forgotten they exist, because they're perched on his forehead, rather than over his eyes.

hellrider

Regular patrols in the wilderness of Elturgard outside the City are one of the duties Zevlor enjoys most. Within the city of Elturel, the Companion's light means no stars are visible at all, only the faintest hint of the moon as she crosses the sky, but now they're far enough away that a smattering of lights are visible against the deep blue overhead. In the distance to the North, the gleam of the Companion can be seen hanging in the sky, but its glow isn't overwhelming.

Their platoon consists of three seasoned Hellriders and a new recruit, who, in Zevlor's opinion, shows a great deal of promise. He has her build the fire for their nightly camp, and as it gets started, he steps away alone, into the thicket, to search for dry branches to add to the stack.

Thus, it's a lone man who stumbles across the stranger in the woods. Tall, horned, with a spade-tipped tail, he cuts an imposing figure, but he refrains from drawing his sword at the sound of someone approaching, simply standing alert at the sound of footsteps.

hellrider

It's not the first alien crash site New Mexico has seen in the last decade. At this point, the USA should be getting used to phenomena like this. First Thor and Loki, then the Chitauri, and now there's this monstrosity of sinews and tentacles and otherworldly components scattered across the shores of Lost Lake. No one was there when it landed, but the energy fluctuations in the area were off the charts for hours before it appeared, and they're still not under control. Some kind of dimensional shift, tears in time and space...Banner could probably explain it, if he were available. He's not, though, AWOL after the Ultron incident, and so it's up to others to put the pieces together.

Up close, much of the debris has a very distinct look, like the limbs of a giant octopus, complete with suckers. They arch across the natural landscape, smelling not of dead fish, but rather of ozone and copper. Deeper into the crash site, there are what appear to be biomechanical panels, half shattered and burning. If it were a more familiar vehicle, protocol would probably dictate a search for survivors first and foremost, but god only knows what could have been flying in this thing.

Steve and his comrades are spared the trouble of finding out the hard way, when a battered figure stumbles free of the wreckage and collapses to its knees in the shallow water nearby. It looks like a man, but his skin is a deep, inhuman reddish tone, he has a pair of jagged horns, and a spade-tipped tail curls behind him. Honestly, he looks like nothing so much as a Victorian era illustration of some sort of demon or devil, but the impression he makes as he splashes his face with water shakily is far from aggressive.

hellrider

Since Avernus, there has been no time. No time to grieve or to rage, no time to celebrate, no time to sing or pray. Not for Zevlor, at least. Some of the others have managed to eke out moments of comfort between them, and not all of those moments have ended in disaster, but Zevlor is always on duty. Two Hellriders and a group of untrained civilians does not make a secure expedition to cross the wilderness with.

Which is why tonight is so surreal. Yes, the party was his suggestion, because his people need the morale and their heroes deserve to be lauded. He's certainly not expecting to have much fun; he'll be fretting over their next steps all evening, but watching the others get drunk and cuddle ad dance will be something of a balm for his hell-scorched soul.

Not everyone loves a party, though, and as the night wears on and a few of their more notorious couples start to slip off into the bushes for a little more private enjoyment, Zevlor can't help but notice Kael looks ill at ease. There has always been something strange about him, to the tiefling's eye; he knows a warrior's thousand-yard-stare by heart, having seen it on other faces and in his own mirror, but with the massive drow it seems to be more than that. He looks like someone who's moving through the world on pure instinct, fueled by uncertainty, leaning into one immediate need after another rather than sitting back and making plans, remembering home, seeking connection.

Maybe it takes one to know one. Zevlor's sense of identity was shattered when he lost his home and his career as a Hellrider in one fell swoop.

He watches the drow disentangle himself, metaphorically, from Bex and Danis and their enthusiastic chatter about plans for their home in Baldur's Gate (yellow wall paint for the kitchen, blue for the bedroom, and white rugs are lovely but awfully impractical and they're going to have pets of course...), and takes the opportunity to approach him with a cup of hot tea.

"Man cannot live by wine alone," he says, offering it out. "You look like you could benefit from a break from socializing."

hellrider

No one gets in, is the rule. Or, it's supposed to be the rule, anyway, ever since the adventurers went off with the Archdruid. Guarding the gate faithfully is primarily for the protection of the tieflings in the Hollow, but it's also a benefit to the druids, whether they want to admit it or not.

No one gets in, because as long as they prove they can hold the place, there's a chance the druids will let them stay. And gods, but it's salt in an open wound to have to think that way. Contributing to the community is one thing, groveling for time in the hopes of saving their children's lives is another. First Avernus, now this. It's as if the world is determined to crush any pride they have left.

No one gets in. Except someone did. Pandirna was the one who caught him, she's nothing if not faithful about checking their supplies, and the moment she noticed medical supplies missing she turned over every crate in the storehouse. He was unconscious, though it looked as if he'd done his best to treat himself before passing out.

It seems highly likely that a drow came from the goblin camp; no one else is casually wandering the wilds these days save the servants of the Absolute. And it's unsettling to be infiltrated, but even at that rate it's impossibly cruel to just...bind the man and slap him awake for questioning. Zevlor's sense of pragmatism says that's what he should do, but maybe he's going soft in his old age.

Tavvin will instead awake laid out on a bedroll, with a few extra blankets stacked on him because the last thing they want is for him to go into shock. On one side of him there are bars, walls on another, and a very steep drop behind him. It's a run down but effective little prison.

On the other side of the bars, Zevlor is watching patiently. He cuts a reasonably impressive figure, in well-kept splint mail, jagged horns glinting in the torchlight. He's not holding weapons, though, and his posture is pensive rather than ominous.

"Well, hello. You're a complication we didn't see coming," he says. "How do you feel?"

hellrider

Of all the battles he's ever faced, from undead to devils, none has ever unmanned Zevlor to the same extent as standing in the square across from Sorcerous Sundries.

He's arrived in Baldur's Gate late, he knows. After the remnants of the tiefling refugees he was meant to lead, and alone. That he made it by himself is impressive. That he managed it while nightly questioning whether or not he really wanted to wake at all in the morning is a testament to...something. Duty. Bloody-mindedness. Some fragment of the paladin left clinging to his soul. There is no way back; he has no right to ask forgiveness of the people he failed, but that doesn't absolve him of his fealty to them.

He cannot approach them himself, and whether that's practicality, knowing they wouldn't accept him, or whether it's cowardice, he can't say, but what he has done, is tracked them through the city like a ghost, leaving food and coin for them to find here and there, intervening from the shadows when it looked like someone might do them harm. Stupid, really. Neither Gortash nor the Absolute will be defeated by sweets and copper coins. Perhaps all Zevlor is doing is idle fancy, assuaging his own conscience in the laziest way possible.

But it's not as if he can take on the Absolute, himself. It's had a piece of him already.

No. But if he's to do anything more for his people than skulk--and it damn well seems like someone has to--he's going to have to talk to one, face to face. Rolan is his choice for more reasons than one. A gifted wizard in his own right, he certainly never acted as though he needed Zevlor's leadership before, and the old Hellrider has heard enough about their journey without him to be impressed. If nothing else, he owes Rolan thanks, and an apology.

It's just that the last thing he wants is to face him.

It's more than an hour that he lingers, legs feeling like lead, trying to force himself to move toward the door of the shop. Bless and curse the bastard, if it wasn't for Aradin's sudden, noisy appearance in the doorway, Zevlor might have turned to stone and stayed forever. As it is, his argument with the animated armor prompts just enough amusement, and deja vu, to get him moving, letting his steps carry him past the human as quietly as they can. And thanks to the ragged hood and cloak covering his head and his armor, he goes unnoticed.

Rolan, however, is going to notice him fairly quickly. He approaches the counter with barely a glance as the magical summons wandering the room, and if his face is shadowed within fabric, it's still pretty damn distinctive.

tiveragh

Tieve's persuasion skills have come through in the clutch more than once on their wild journey, but she will never be more grateful for their success than the moment Karlach agrees to follow her. Not to Avernus--while Tieve herself might think the price of living in the Hells is worth it for the chance to explore and find a way out later, she can't blame Karlach for refusing. She can see the marks of loneliness in her more clearly than anyone. They've both done decade-long sentences in uncertain solitude. Tieve was just luckier in that hers was not in a war zone.

As soon as the yes leaves Karlach's lips, as soon as they've called out a last frantic farewell-for-now to their friends, Tieve pulls open the door. They're on the docks, and that's close enough to a crossroads. They leave the world without taking a step.

And instead of the rising pink dawn, they're surrounded by curtains of velvet purple twilight. It's usually twilight here. Sometimes the sun rises, or the moon, but the fey prefer not to have the eyes of other gods upon them. Now, the sky above is a pristine, unbroken shade of violet, soft on the eyes but almost unsettling in its perfection. The ground is sand under their feet, white as milk, and there's clear water to the west. To the east, trees rise up, impossibly tall, every imaginable shade of green in the gloaming.

Tieve's hands come up to grip Karlach's forearms almost at once, heedless of the risk. She thinks, she hopes, the fires are already dying down. "How do you feel? Breathe slow, breathe deep. I'm here."