@revised

[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?"

Comments

[revised]

The entire affair should be far more embarrassing than it is. Any drow hunter worth his salt wouldn't find himself in this position, and it's what Tavvin had found himself contemplating roughly as the ground had been racing up to meet him. Funny how, in the end, he'd cared very little about perception and far more about the fact he couldn't quite stop himself from pitching forward ungracefully as his body rebelled. It's a small mercy the ground is soft and he doesn't catch the corner of a box as consciousness eludes him.

He remains unaware for a majority of the time between finally being discovered by the tieflings and the first uncomfortable moments he re-enters awareness. The voice is distant at first, echoing like he's back in the Underdark. Only when his mind returns to him enough does that alarm him, yanking him upward until he's sat bolt upright, eyes frantic even as the layers of blankets fall off him and pool over his lap. It's instinctual the way he feels himself for his injuries, as though momentarily trying to take stock of how hurt he still is before realising he has company.

Snagging his gaze on the tiefling, immediately his expression chills until whatever panic he had felt when he awoke is shoved down harshly far beyond the surface. His eyes run a quick tour of his surroundings - incarcerated, doesn't that just make a change - before returning to the tiefling who seems to be waiting for an answer. A conversation, it seems, the drow hadn't expected to be having. Which leaves him in something of a difficult spot. He's been sent here with a very clear goal. Infiltrate and poison from the inside. Except he'd rather peel his own skin off than allow Minthara her victory.

"It's a habit, apparently" he says, slightly dismissively, of being a surprising complication. Caged like this doesn't quite come close to what it was like escaping from the Underdark. Though he supposes there's always time for the situation to escalate, even if he doubts these tieflings could come up with anything remotely as grim as his own people will if they catch him again. He doesn't even bother answering the question about how he feels. What's the point in answering when it's likely going to get a whole lot worse imminently.

"Are you just here to poke with a stick through the bars or is there something more painful coming my way?"

[hellrider]

The quick shift in their prisoner's expression, from alarm to ice, could make Zevlor more suspicious of him. It doesn't. Rather, he sees the look of someone who is all too used to having their back to the wall. A lot of his kin get that look, too, especially now.

Especially the children.

Little enough has been done with his injuries as of yet. A quick wash and as much light bandaging as he and Tilses could apply without stripping the clothes off the stranger. Zevlor is actually a little more concerned that they get him something to eat and drink; his body's going to have trouble healing, even with magic, if he's malnourished. But that's a bridge that can be crossed...not immediately, but soon.

"There's a canteen at the foot of the bedroll," he tells him. "Clean water. My lieutenant thought you might be dehydrated, but forcing water into the mouth of an unconscious person is an excellent way to accidentally kill them."

He shakes his head. "If I have to kill you to protect my kin, I will, but at the moment you're not a threat, and I've no interest in torturing you."

Not that he hasn't participated in interrogations before, in his role as a Hellrider. Some of them were even on the coercive side, though nothing compared to what drow could come up with. Here and now, though, he is not a representative of any authority but his own. He can choose how harsh to be, how much they need whatever information this person can provide. He's already settled on mercy. If the drow leading the goblins has sent him, it wasn't out of trust or kindness, else he wouldn't be in such poor condition.

"I have every intention of feeding you shortly, actually, but I thought I'd at least try to get some answers first. That said, you should know I'm not the only leader here. The druids have more power in this Grove than I, and they're kindly disposed toward no one. It's very much in your best interest to stay where you are, even if you're not going to cooperate. If Kagha catches you, your last experience on this world will be a viper's fangs, whether I like it or not."

[revised]

No sooner than his attention is drawn to the canteen at his feet does his own suspicion soar. As much as he's spent a lifetime already being brought up to connive and deceive - and he is good at it, when he puts effort into it - the truth is he is too new into consciousness to lean all too hard any way whatsoever. Defensiveness is just easier to reach for, especially when he's expecting punishment in the next breath.

The tiefling eventually references the threat of a viper and Tavvin, for all the composure he has scraped together at such short notice, is briefly unable to stifle the confusion. He hasn't been privy to much of what has been discussed in the goblin camp, simply because he was lower in the pecking order than even the worgs were. But they don't know that there is a split in leadership, to some degree.

He very specifically hasn't looked at the canteen of water, even though he can feel how dry his lips are. His mouth feels like ash. His body isn't far off screaming at him to drink whatever the liquid is, but his mind simply won't allow it. Stubborn but, more importantly, expecting death to be delivered at any moment. There's a certain tolerance threshold he easily ranks above when it comes to poisons, but he's not immune to them any more than the next drow.

"Such a hospitable host. If I'm no threat to you, why am I behind these bars?"

It wouldn't take a massive amount of perception for his irritation - and genuine offence at not being perceived as a threat - to noticeably bleed through into his clipped tone. A slight dare thereafter, as though he's heard himself midway through and tried to finish the question in a way that goads the tiefling into conceding the point.

Being on the receiving end of torture isn't on his list of things to do, if he can help it, but in actuality he would give up Minthara with only a promise he'd be spared. The female drow has done nothing to earn his loyalty, even if this druids' grove is similarly the last place he'd like to be.

[hellrider]

He's still off-balance, a little groggy, very weak. Zevlor isn't above taking advantage of that to question him; it's possible he hoped the suggestion that they'll feed him after he answers some questions would loosen the drow's tongue. Evidently not, at least not yet, but the way he's studiously avoiding looking for the water says something, too.

If he wanted to be cruel here, opportunities abound. Instead, Zevlor just chuckles softly and shakes his head. "You misunderstand me. You're not a threat to me now because you're behind those bars. A healthy drow with a shiv could make sort work of most of my kin here. You're clearly not healthy, but I won't be letting you loose amongst our children and elderly. Not without a number of guarantees."

"Here is the situation: my kin are refugees from Elturel. The druids of this grove permitted us to enter and stay after we were attacked on the road, but they mean for us to move on shortly, one way or another, and if we get slaughtered by your goblin hordes, so much the better as far as they're concerned."

"Now. If I let you wander around, the druids will kill you, but they will also blame my people for letting you in. So, I don't want to torture you and I don't intend to starve you, but you're going nowhere until we have some way of leaving here without getting mobbed on the road."

"You can tell me what you know and make things easier for everyone, or you can sit here and sulk, we'll take you with us when we go, and we'll turn you loose once we reach the mountain pass. Unless, of course, the Grove gets raided or Kagha decides to kill us herself. Then, you'd be on your own."

[revised]

Mind working as best as it can considering his current state, he does a surprisingly decent job of holding the tiefling's eye contact, barely blinking. Though the truth of the matter is he's trying his best to keep his mental footwork as flexible as possible.

There are facts that are unchangeable in this scenario, and he's considering them as the horned commander explains. The scowl that wants to work its way loose is caught at the last second, though even Tavvin isn't sure if it's a blanket reaction to all of it or if he's still stung at the implication he's probably only a threat to the elderly and the young outside of these bars.

The irritating part that stings is he knows full well the older tiefling is making a fair and correct assessment. He's starving, dehydrated, and has been for longer than he'd been turned loose from the goblin camp.

In the end the scowl, he decides, is for the phrase 'your goblin hoards'. As though he has any sway at all over the walking, talking (barely) pile of worg turds.

The problem remains that, despite his disadvantage, he isn't stupid. He sees the tiefling's point and the fact it's well made is grating on his already frayed nerves.

Aware that he's already been silent for long enough that he's betraying the complexity - or instability - of his own thoughts, he looks aside to the canteen again. The thirst is driving him to distraction, the burn in his throat unavoidable.

He doesn't bother asking if it's poison. He expects it and yet the needs of his body drag him to the doorstep of the potential all the same. Dying is something he's fought so hard to escape, against all odds, but the moment his fingers grip around the canteen he's scrabbling to get it to his lips, tipping it back as the water finally flows over his coarse tongue and parched throat. It's a move of pure survival and desperation, one that he feels faintly embarrassed over briefly before schooling his expression to something more sour again.

"What do you want to know?" Of course, admitting that he had been below the very lowest rung in the camp would make him less useful. But he would like to see Minthara's head impaled on a spike, so maybe he is in the business of giving this soldier what he wants.

[hellrider]

The canteen is only half full, not out of cruelty, but because someone desperately thirsty could easily drink enough to hurt themselves. Zevlor watches him, and there's a hint of relief in his posture when he drinks. There's no poison, of course. It's not their style, and given the fight they're facing, it would be a waste of perfectly good poison to dump it in someone's drink.

"I'm perplexed by a lot of things," he says, rising to pace. He clasps his hands behind his back, moving slowly across the dirt and stone as his tail etches a sickle-shape in the air behind him. "Goblins aren't known for being organized, and Drow aren't known for being fond enough of goblins to lead them anywhere. I have to assume they're cheap cannon fodder for whatever project you're pursuing."

"...using the term 'you' loosely," he adds. "I know there's a woman in charge." Safe bet with Drow, but also his scouts haven't been idle.

"Why the interest in this Grove, then? It's not a large enclave, and it seems all they want is to be left alone. You could rampage across the Sword Coast and I don't think they'd lift a finger at this point." There is no small amount of contempt in his voice. Halsin's departure and the subsequent cruelty of Kagha and her followers has left a sour taste in his mouth. Even the druids that are ostensibly kindly disposed toward them aren't trying to help.

"Likewise, there's no reason for us to be a target of interest, aside from the fact that we're obviously vulnerable to attack. I know goblins don't have anything better to do with their time, but I would have thought you would."

[revised]

Now that the most immediate peril of expiring due to dehydration has been lessened, Tavvin finds himself slightly more able to listen properly. His gaze more easily follows the pacing of the tiefling, even if he averts it if the tiefling ever looks at him as he goes. It's at least interesting to hear the man postulate what it is Minthara's ultimate goals are.

By the time there's a question ready for him, he's leaned back in his prison, legs crossed over at the ankle as though he's perfectly comfortable. He's not, but there's plenty to take care of when it comes to presenting himself and many reasons why he wouldn't want his position to be completely helpless, even if that's what it is.

These tieflings, he's starting to realise, are bigger targets than he is, and if what he's being told about the druids is true, they have already taken themselves out of the fight. There's nothing in particular he feels about that beyond the concern over where he fits into all of this, and how likely it might be for him to escape without injury from tiefling, druid or goblin.

His drow upbringing would never allow him to consider that the tiefling soldier isn't simply preparing him for a terrible fate. And yet there's a very uncomfortable thought in the back of his mind that he won't escape this by behaving like a drow. These other races, for the most part, don't like that.

It leaves him frowning for a long few moments before he blinks his expression away and looks up.

"If you think I know the full extent over what Minthara is planning, you'd be wrong."

This time he doesn't bother to hide the deeply rooted hatred he bears for the drow woman who has been making his existence impossible lately. It isn't just that, but it's the easiest thing to let himself acknowledge for now.

"I was a relatively newly surfaced drow, and she arranged for me to be taken from where I had settled and brought to the camp. I've been a prisoner there for some time."

He doesn't explain how he had gone from prisoner to alleged spy, nor does he volunteer the circumstances of being set loose from the camp, but he does have something to share.

"She's looking for something. I don't know what, but it has something to do with the cult they're all part of. She's turning everywhere over trying to find it, and this is a place she hasn't yet razed in her search. Once she does know the location though there won't be anywhere to hide. Not unless you can surprise them somehow."

[hellrider]

Zevlor is, to all appearances, lost in thought as he paces. It would be easy to assume he's not paying attention to the drow, and it's true that he's confident he won't be attacked, but he's keeping half an eye to his body language. It goes from ill at ease, intent, to nonchalant in a very practiced way that reinforces Zevlor's initial assessment of his prisoner. This is someone who is used to having his back to the wall, and no help forthcoming. Poor bastard. Might also be a dangerous poor bastard, but the tiefling can spare a little compassion, regardless.

Meanwhile, he doesn't have all the answers Zevlor wants. It's evident the goblins wanted to enter this Grove for some reason other than wanton slaughter--there are always opportunities for slaughter on the roads--but the information that they want something specific, an item or perhaps even a person, is new. It makes sense. "Another reason not to let you go free, I'm afraid," he says, glancing over his shoulder to look at the prisoner. "We're not interested in being razed."

"But it sounds as though you have no reason to go back, either. You don't trust me, of course, but she's already demonstrated you can't trust her. Your chances are better here."

He may be a paladin at heart, but Zevlor is fully capable of appealing to pure pragmtism. He turns again and makes for the door of the prison shed, calling to someone outside for more water, a small measure of wine, and double rations of whatever Okta's cooking. It takes a moment for him to return with a tray, which he sets on the floor outside the prison before producing a key. "Remain sitting. Don't run. This is for you. It's not glamorous, I'm afraid, our stores are very basic, but it's food."

"I'd like for you to eat and recover a little more, and then I want whatever you can tell me about numbers and supplies in that camp of Minthara's."

[revised]

A queue forms on Tavvin's tongue of sharp retorts, of responses that won't be helpful but that habitually live in his mind ready to thrown at any given opportunity. Always ready to one-up and avoid coming out of any situation looking the weakest. It's been that way for as long as he can remember, and being on the surface hasn't given him much opportunity to realign on that front.

Before Minthara had caught up with him, he'd been preying on people's taste for exotic. People's taste for drow, rare as they are on the surface. And that's the only way he'll allow himself to think about what his life on the surface has been so far. He's doing the preying, not anybody else. No matter that he's gone hungry more days than eaten, it feels like.

So for this tiefling to be holding him in a cage - for good reason, that he can accept - and offering him sustenance for information is slightly different to the role he'd fallen into. Nobody has been interested in his mind since he left the Underdark.

The instructions are very clear, and though he's been told not to move, his instinct is to pull his legs up, knees hugged to his chest. Despite every way in which he's trying to not appear weak, the idea of leaving any part of himself close to where that door may open forces him to draw back out of a gut reaction.

"You're giving me food before trying to get information out of me?" He seems genuinely surprised by this, perplexed almost at the way the tiefling is setting the order their schedule. A strange way to engage in torture.

[hellrider]

Something flickers across the tiefling's face, something somber and a little grim. He can't know for certain what this young drow has been through, but he has a few guesses, most of which inspire compassion more than anything else. If he acts the bleeding heart, though, he has to assume the young man will either be unnerved or take it as a sign of weakness.

This is a delicate dance, and if someone gets their toes stepped on, it's not likely to be Zevlor. He feels the responsibility for the lives in his hands all too keenly, and now there's one more of them than there was a few hours ago.

"My name is Zevlor," he says, unlocking the door. "If you give me yours, I'll use it, but I won't insist."

He keeps his eyes on Tavvin as he bends and picks up the tray, stepping into the cell to deliver it. He doesn't come very close, though. He sets it on the floor again, a few feet from the bedroll, then withdraws. Once again, he closes the barred door, making a barrier between them, but he doesn't lock it this time, only juggles the key in his hand idly, returning to the spot where he initially sat.

"I don't enjoy suffering. I don't want to hurt you." The words could sound like an implicit threat, but there's something about his tone of voice that suggests weariness, like he's seen all too much blood and he's sick of it. "If I can make an ally of you by feeding you and keeping the druids from killing you, that's by far the best case scenario for me here, regardless of whether you have information I can use or not."

"I'd be a fool not to ask for everything you can tell me. Rest assured, I will ask--but an extra pair of eyes on the road to Baldur's Gate would help us, too. If we can ever get out of here."

"So, yes. I'm giving you food, and I'm watching to see how you react."

[revised]

Like a caged animal - one that has claws, and fangs, and yet is small and susceptible to grave injury should any overwhelming force be used - the temptation to strike out occurs as he's pushing himself back from the door. A specific kind of aggression that comes from a place of deep fear rather than rage or anger.

Tavvin can be dangerous in the right situations, that's true. But he's also small enough, and lithe enough, that if Zevlor wanted to, he could hold him upside down by the ankles only breaking a minor sweat. Or maybe the drow is suffering from a case of believing his captor to be invincibly strong.

Regardless, just as he had with the carafe, his eyes seem to be looking everywhere but the tray in the first instance, watching the tiefling carefully as he retreats. Ears bent around each and every word as if he's used to needing to hang on them to make sure he hasn't missed anything untoward, or particularly scheming. Mostly he tries not to gawk at the simple idea that he may even journey with them, back to a place he'd at least tried to settle before he was so rudely abducted by Minthara's people.

It's a debate that rages in him always, but eventually he does give something.

"Tavvin."

His actual name, and not an alias he might go by because it doesn't do to have clients know information like that. But in this instance, what is this tiefling going to do with it? It carries precisely no value. Gaze finally diverting to the tray, he reaches out to pluck up a chunk of bread from it, the look he flicks briefly to Zevlor as if to gauge if he's smirking or not seems to satisfy his immediate food-related concerns.

"I was in Baldur's Gate before. It's where I ended up when I finally escaped the Underdark."

He doesn't just nibble at the bread but stuffs it almost violently in his mouth, as if any moment somebody may come along and take it away. And then he turns his attention to the rest of the tray in the same way, hurrying through it without enjoying the taste, keen to get it all into his stomach before the inevitable happens.

[hellrider]

It will take a long time to fully earn this drow's trust, if he's even willing to try giving it. Zevlor knows that. Frankly he'd be a fool to expect to earn any drow's trust easily, let alone one who's been so plainly misused. He can be patient. He notes the tension as he retreats from the prison, but the captive doesn't lunge or attack, and he feels comfortable, for the moment, leaving the door closed but unlocked.

An unlocked door between them is a protection for both sides, rather than a trap with a caged animal inside it.

"Tavvin," he repeats the name when given, careful to pronounce it properly, and then he offers a smile. Not a smirk, not even a particularly relaxed smile, but a look of polite relief that they're making some progress.

He cannot afford to spend a long time coddling a prisoner, either, but nearly any drow will have weapons training. He could help. Just one extra person who can shoot or wield a dagger could make a difference in protecting their caravan. This is the justification he will use when he goes to talk to Tilly about what they propose to do with this stranger.

"Were you?" He takes his seat again, tucking the keys in a pocket. "I haven't been there since I was thirty, and the roads have changed. If we ever get out of this grove alive, an additional guide wouldn't be amiss."

He's being generous with carrots here, and reserved with the threat of a stick. Maybe Zevlor is a little bit desperate, himself. "What if I offer a bargain? You have no reason to go back to the goblins, clearly. Eat and catch your breath, then tell me everything you can about their numbers, their armaments. Anything you have that I can use against them."

"Then, we can call ourselves even and begin again as if you haven't been caught in our storehouse. We have little enough to pay a mercenary or guide, but if you will join us in good faith, you'll be fed and clothed."

"...you'd still have to keep hidden until the problem with Kagha is resolved, of course." He sighs. "But that bridge can be crossed in time."

[revised]

The closed-but-not-locked door is appreciated, silently and certainly not overtly, and Tavvin can feel a couple of bundles of tension in his back slowly release themselves. Perhaps his stomach will ache soon enough from how fast he has shovelled sustenance into his body, but only time will tell. The time the tiefling takes to ensure he's got the pronunciation of his name correct is... different. Different enough from the usual tripe more related to people's desire for exotic and instead coming across as a basic level of respect.

He tucks that moment away to contemplate later, at a time when he's not having to be very specific about how he's physically coming across.

Usually he'd be quick to find something barbed and sharp at continued conversation, to cut it off, but Zevlor has so far proven he's willing to part with food and water. And despite the speed at which he'd accepted both, he doesn't seem to be suffering any ill effects of poison yet.

The bargain remains something of a concern, no matter how kindly he's treated. Zevlor isn't mistaken on how little Tavvin wants to return to the goblin camp. In fact, he'd do anything to stay far away from it. But sitting in a cage within this druids grove certainly isn't far enough away. It's as though he can feel their filthy goblin eyes getting ever closer to discovering this place.

That puts panic back in him, and his approach to the matter flips despite his motivation remaining the same. It's always survival at any cost. But Zevlor is now recognisably his best hope of surviving the goblins and their leaders, Minthara included. And Tavvin is certainly no stranger to looking for the strongest person to attach himself to in the hopes they'll protect him.

"Whatever you intend to do, it needs to be fast. It's only a matter of time before somebody lets slip the location. Or a goblin gets lucky."

[hellrider]

Zevlor has enough sense to be keenly aware that there's no functional difference between being exotic and being the local pest. Tieflings are more commonly seen on the surface, but they're visibly other when compared to the more dominant races in these lands. Scapegoats, tramps, thieves, hellspawn. Even now they're being blamed for drawing monsters to the Grove--just as they were blamed for Elturel's fall--when it's the Grove itself that has something the monsters want, and would be under the same attacks even if the tieflings had never passed through.

Whatever happens with Kagha, he hopes she can be made to realize that, if only so he can see the look on her face.

He nods slowly at Tavvin's warning. Clearly the goblins can't be dissuaded from this place, and they can't keep fighting back wave after wave of them forever. He won't have his people becoming martyrs for these druids. They owe Halsin, but the rest can sit in their briars and rot.

"I've had scouts go out and come back with limited information. I've had a few scouts go out and fail to return. We can't take on an army, but if there's a chance killing the leaders will force the rest to scatter, even for a short while, I'm damn well willing to try."

But he's a soldier, not an assassin. Charging into this without a plan won't end well.

[revised]

"The goblins are chaotic without the constant direction of the leaders. The Priestess is... different. Controlled and purposeful." He takes a moment to frown, his thoughts taking him to places he'd rather not return. "If you removed the heads, that hydra would die."

As he's talking, he's aware of the fact he's the unfortunate difference between who finds their mark first. He knows where this grove is, but in return, he also knows how to get into the goblin camp without rousing the entire population of it to battle.

He's not prone to be helpful for the sake of wanting a good outcome for anybody but himself, but given his energy is returning in increments with the sustenance he's been provided, he can at least think more clearly about what is best for him.

Zevlor might not be an assassin, but he is. He's always looking for ways in and out that don't garner attention easily.

"There's a way in that doesn't involve walking through the front doors. If somebody could get in that way, you may have a chance of dispatching the leaders - Minthara, the Priestess and Dror Ragzlin - before the goblins notice in their entirety. I don't imagine after that they would be compelled to do much at all regarding this grove or your people. And, even if they did, they aren't organised enough to be a threat."

He pauses there, clearly weighing up what he says next and trying to concentrate on what really matters: his own safety.

"I will not set foot in that camp again. But... I will show you to where the hidden entrance is. If you have the the parchment and ink, I can draw a map of the inside, as I remember it, with where each of the leaders are."

[hellrider]

"That's the problem with goblins," he says dryly. "No sense of discipline." It's sarcasm, mostly, but lest Tavvin doubt he's listening, he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, bright gaze seeking out the drow's relentlessly.

It may be optimistic to think he's getting through to the prisoner, particularly at this early juncture, but having couched his requests in terms of a bargain rather than an interrogation was deliberate on Zevlor's part. They have something in common, after all: they both want to live.

"Minthara, a goblin Priestess, and Dror Ragzlin," he echoes. His efforts at gathering intel suggested multiple leaders, but not the exact number, and not their names. This is a step forward. He nods grimly at the offer; it's fair, and he wasn't inclined to let this drow walk back into the goblin camp, anyway. He knows too much.

"I'll have to go myself," he says. "There's no one else except my lieutenant. We're both cavalry, Hellriders, neither one is going to be any better at stealth than the other." At least he's got more kills under his belt than Tilses.

"All right." He stands. "We have an accord. Wait here, finish your meal while I get parchment. I'm not going to lock you in, but don't do anything foolish. Remember, I cannot protect you from the druids."

He makes his way to the door and exits quietly. A guard remains outside to watch the passage, but the cell door itself is unlocked. When Zevlor returns, it's not only with ink and parchment, but also an extra tunic and cloak draped over one shoulder. They're secondhand, at least, worn and thin, but an extra layer of warmth never hurt anyone.

[revised]

Any vicious thrill of superiority over Minthara's dealings with goblins had been short lived when she had forced him into a tier below even those wretched creatures. A power play that he's still grievously offended by now. She had never found the truth of his origins and perhaps that is the reason he had been so severely underestimated. Had she known, perhaps she wouldn't have been so quick to assume he had no designs on power himself.

But to be degraded like that having been - at one time - the most promising of his mother's descendants, in line to assume her power at the head of the house, was an impossible pill to swallow. Complicated as it had been for him, being brought up with cunning ambition and hungry for power hasn't been an easy thing to relinquish his hold over.

Had his escape not been so narrow, it might make him even more likely to try and slip free from the admittedly unlocked cage. But he's still where Zevlor left him when the tiefling returns, ghostly pale eyes flicking to the garments over his shoulder before to his face again. Whatever unease he feels at having his needs taken care of like this, the condition of his body is far from completely well. He is reliant on this specific tiefling in a way that's incredibly uncomfortable.

The desire to manipulate is never far, though, and eventually he knows he needs to commit convincingly to the notion of not being against Zevlor's aims. And he's not - not when there's the possibility that the tiefling will put an end to Minthara. That he's very authentically in support of.

"You're going to get killed if you aren't very good at sneaking around."

[hellrider]

"They're not especially luxurious," he says of the clothes, and opens the door to the cell. "And any tunic tiefling's worn before you has snags in the back where the wings catch the fabric. But I promise wearing our castoffs won't condemn your soul to the Hells unless it already belongs there."

He shakes out the fabric and tosses the items lightly in Tavvin's direction. "Wear them or don't, your call, but it goes get cold at night here."

The warning earns no more than a shrug. "I hope not. That'll be a problem for my kin. My options are limited, here." There's a moment's hesitation, and then: "Though, if I am killed, perhaps I could charge you with a...small request."

"The second druid here. She's the one who wants my people thrown out. Their supplies have been limited from the first; I don't believe that's the source of her determination." If it were a matter of food and water running out, the druids' policy wouldn't have taken such an abrupt turn when Halsin disappeared. No, there's some pragmatism in her explanations, but her motivation is pure racial animus, as far as Zevlor is concerned.

"If you remain here, and I go and fail to return...you're far more likely to be able to kill her than I would be." He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "It's not something I would request at all, were I not backed into a corner."

There's a flicker of a wry smile, and then: "Although perhaps I'm guilty of making assumptions, myself, hoping you're a capable assassin in part because you're a drow." In part. In about...three-fourths of a part. The other fourth being the fact that he sneaked into the Grove in the first place.