morphicpools | (no subject)

Zevlor gathers a little wood as they go, but keeps his attention divided between his task and the child. If the boy does try to run off suddenly, he might be able to catch him, though whether it would be a good idea to try or not is hard to say. Deep down, he's thinking of his own younger brothers, one of whom he hasn't heard from in months.

He can see the glance when he mentions his lieutenant, can tell it's a point in his favor. "Lieutenant Haldreth is a fine officer," he goes on. "He's due for a promotion soon, likely to captain. I think he prefers his work in the city, but he never complains about patrol duty, either."

"My corporal is a halfling, a cleric of Torm. And we have a new recruit with us, another tiefling like myself. There's a high number of tieflings in the Hellriders. Well...there are quite a lot of tieflings in Elturel to start with. We're not always welcome in other cities, but Elturel gives us a chance to prove ourselves, at least."

As they continue on, and things stay calm, it seems Kion is coming down from whatever terror he'd started out at. Still nervous, but he seemed just skittish in general rather than specifically because of Zevlor now.

And it's not hard to track his responses. For as shy and retiring as he was, the little elf never really learned to hide his emotions. So Zevlor would be able to see it as he continued speaking, a blank sort of confusion at halflings, and Torm, and a sort of... understanding as he spoke of the tieflings in Elturel. Not that elves were generally considered a threat back home, but there were plenty of harmful stereotypes and other sorts of bigotry pointed their way that he understood entirely the idea of having to 'prove themselves' to those around them. There was a reason most clans stayed clear of proper settlements as they travelled after all.

A few more steps, and the firelight is visible ahead of them. The other Hellriders are chatting a little: two female voices, one of which appears to be giving the other cooking instructions. Zevlor whistles a brief tune to let them know he's approaching, and a few moments later they come through the trees into a clearing.

The fire is small but holding up well enough. A tiefling woman with short black hair is chopping vegetables carefully for some kind of quick camp stew. Next to her, a much shorter woman with thick blonde braids is just placing a pot over the flames.

A man not quite Zevlor's match in height, brown-haired and relatively fair-skinned, is sitting opposite the women, half keeping watch and half cleaning and oiling his crossbow. All are in armor that matches Zevlor's, and all three look up when he appears, giving brief salutes before their attention is caught by the strange youth.

"At ease. We have a guest," Zevlor tells them. "This is Kion. He's not quite ready to tell us where he's come from yet, but he's willing to share our fire."

They all absorb the implications easily enough: a lost and skittish child. "I guess I better chop up a couple more turnips, sir?" The tiefling woman gives Kion a sympathetic look but remains where she is.

"Might be a good idea, thank you, Tilses. Lieutenant, could you go to my tent and grab the gray blanket from my bedroll?" This is addressed to the half-elven man, who is already putting his crossbow aside.

"Ay, sir." He says agreeably, unsmiling, but there's nothing unfriendly or wary about his body language as he slips into one of the tents, returning a moment later with a blanket in his hands. "It shouldn't be too cold tonight, but you'll want this. Maybe socks, too."

The whistle is a familiar enough concept, and doesn't alarm Kion at all, though he does edge ever so slightly back into Zevlor's shadow at the others attention. It seems easy enough to pick out who was who from the descriptions he'd been given before, though he's not entirely sure if a halfling is another name for dwarves now, or some sort of dwarven-blooded people like half-elves. At least no one seems upset at his presence which eases his concerns for the moment, at least enough that he eased ever so subtly out from Zevlor's shadow.

And while his general skintone, and the dim light of evening had hidden the markings, in the firelight the vallaslin marking his face were clearly visible, bold and dark, and to anyone experienced with tattoos, just on the tail end of healing.

Not that he thought anything of them seeing that, accepting the blanket when the stoic lieutenant offered it, though the mention of socks had him glancing down at his feet, with a light wiggle of toes before he shook his head, unable to help the flicker of distaste at the idea. If it was cold enough he'd wrap them, but it was fine.

Zevlor notes the markings now, and isn't quite sure what to make of them. Tattoos aren't uncommon; he has none, and neither does the other tiefling, but the lieutenant has a thin bladed design tattooed down the front of his throat, and the cleric has intricate markings on the backs of her hands. Theirs are in no way sacred, though, just personal decorations, aesthetic choices.

He lays his bundle of wood down by the fire, then collects Kion's from him and sets it in the same area, freeing up his arms for the blanket. "No socks?" He's a little amused, but polite about it. "As long as you don't get frostbite, you can suit yourself."

The lieutenant crouches to help him wrap the blanket around his shoulders, studying him thoughtfully. His eyes are grey, his ears not quite as long and pointed as the tieflings' but definitely elven. "I don't...have any extra cloak pins," He says with a vague frown. "I suppose you'll just have to hold onto it for now."

It's likely a bit heartening, the faint crinkle that creases Kion's nose momentarily at Zevlor's teasing. Like if he was a bit less timid he might make a face at him, or just stick his tongue out. Some hint that whatever had happened in his young life, he wasn't traumatized beyond repair.

That the lieutenant has pointed ears at all is strange, a thing that Kion notices as he approaches. Was Zevlor just mistaken? Maybe his lieutenant had claimed to be elven-blooded to avoid some of the prejudices. Though his ears were rather short... maybe sometimes it happened. It wasn't like he was an expert. He nodded at the consideration, for the moment just taking the edges of the blanket between his fingers to keep it drawn around his shoulders. He might have a pin or bit of wire scrap in his pockets that he can use to keep it in place, but he'll worry about that later.

It wasn't entirely an attempt to tease on Zevlor's part. He genuinely wants to be sure Kion is watching out for his own toes. He's not going to insist on anything, though, and that little grudging glance is indeed reassuring. Still timid, still quiet, but also still a child, somewhere under the caution.

The lieutenant studies him a moment, as if making sure he's going to be all right, then makes a soft, satisfied 'mm' noise, and straightens, going back to his work of tending to his weaponry.

"Commander, did you want me to look him over?" The cleric seems to have finished her task and stands up now, dusting her hands off on her pants.

"I think...we can trust him to tell us if he's injured," Zevlor says, and looks at Kion with eyebrows raised, as if checking to see whether his assumption is right. "If you're hurt, we can help, all right?"

The longer that they interacted and nothing suspicious happened, the more Kion relaxed. At least to a point. There could still be some trick coming, but he doubted it. They clearly outclassed him in both numbers and simply being armed, so there was little point in such duplicity. And really, for one Dalish youth, it would be overkill regardless.

And he wasn't about to run around injured if he didn't have to. At the question from the halfling woman, and Zevlor's comment, he took mental stock of himself, any aches or pains. He hadn't gotten into too much trouble, but there had been a couple tumbles in being separated from the others, and he could feel the ache around his shoulder where he'd landed unpleasantly. So he just plunked down on the nearest log, glancing towards the cleric with a light tap of fingers against the shoulder in question. He doubted it would resolve to anything serious beyond bruising, but why risk it if someone could help?

The halfling glances at Zevlor, who smiles a little, nodding. Taking this as assent, she approaches Kion and looks him over visually, before placing a hand just over the shoulder he's indicated. There's a shimmer of pale light that curls around her fingers and palm. "Lift that arm for me a little, please. Just as much as is comfortable. There might be some tearing in the tendons, or it might just be bruising..."

Up close, she could probably see some other injuries, but they just seemed to be surface level things, mild scuffs and scrapes. His clothing is fairly sturdy, but there's dust and dirt marks in the leathers that hint that he definitely took a tumble or two before coming across Zevlor.

Whatever the case, he did as she asked, lifting the arm until he felt the tension of discomfort start, at which point he just kept it still, grimacing slightly at the idea of tendon damage.

The cleric is less concerned with ordinary scrapes, but after a moment of inspection decides there's enough damage to his shoulder to do something about it. "All right, you can relax again; thank you, dear. This won't take but a few moments to heal, but I want you to try and rest the shoulder for a day or two, as well."

As she speaks, she works her spell with a few delicate gestures, just barely touching him with her fingertips.

Tilses stands up from where she was working by the fire, in the meantime, stretching, and then approaches Zevlor. "Sir, will we need to head straight back to the city in the morning? Since we have a lost civilian, I mean?"

"...I haven't decided. The tracks we saw earlier today are a little concerning."

Kion nods at the instruction, even as he's lowering his arm again. The magic was different than what he'd seen before, the healing felt different than what the First's did. But he held still all the same, knowing better than to disrupt spellwork, let alone spellwork being done on him.

That didn't stop the subtle way he froze at the conversation he heard, the mention of returning to the city just having his wary gaze zeroing in on the pair conversing, a faint tension starting to seep back into his posture.

Neither Zevlor nor Tilses notice that they're being overheard, the conversation proceeding quietly.

"For one thing, he's not from Elturel. I'm sure of that," Zevlor says. "And if there are others lost out here like him, they're going to be in danger, as well. I honestly think he might be better served to stay with us while we investigate. But that's assuming he'll be willing to stay put."

"I guess there's no protocol for a chance encounter in the wild like this..."

"No, only for search and rescue operations. Anyway, if there is an orthon hunting in this area, it needs to be stopped or we'll be doing a lot more of those."

"Don't look so worried," the halfling says to Kion. "We patrol these lands on a regular basis. There's yet to be anything, fiend or wild animal, we can't handle."

It wasn't the beasts or monsters in the woods that had that tension returning. Kion tried to offer a thin, faint smile to reassure the cleric, but it hardly looked convincing with the unease still there, the nervous way his gaze kept flicking back to Zevron and Tilses.

He could explain, clarify. That he was more afraid of the idea of going to the city than anything. It would hardly be a surprising idea. Even elves who grew up in the cities tended to have a miserable time, but him, clearly Dalish? He'd be a target, especially in an alienage. But the idea of speaking up at all just had the air catching in his throat, and he knew he wouldn't get a sound out beyond a faintly frustrated huff of a breath at the realization.

The trouble is that no one here has a clue what Dalish means, or what the significance of his wariness may be. Wood elves are a thing, and they tend not to like the city, but they're not necessarily afraid of it, either.

Taking note of Kion's unease, Zevlor comes closer again, sitting next to him. "No one's going to hurt you, friend. There may be a large fiend in this area, which we were attempting to track. Normally we wouldn't do anything of the kind with a civilian traveling with us, since it's very dangerous. But what do you think?"

At some point there would be clarification surely, but it was such an obvious thing where he was from, that the idea that the others were unaware of why he was nervous simply hadn't occurred to Kion yet.

He doesn't seem upset by Zevlor's proximity either. Something about the man is strangely soothing. Maybe just the calm air he carries himself with, or something about the timbre of his voice. Whatever it is, it has the small elf easing somewhat once again, especially as he considered the problem.

"...I can track," Offered in that same quiet voice once nerves had released their stranglehold enough for him to get words out. "I just... cities are dangerous for us."

It was likely more words than he'd said to anyone in days at one time, not that anyone here would know. But he also felt he really needed to make sure they were on the same page, so desperation drove him to be a bit more verbose for once.

At least the young elf seems to trust him, still. Zevlor finds that heartening, turning toward him and leaning a little closer to hear his soft murmur.

"Elturel welcomes all people of good will," he says gently. "I can tell you're afraid, and not used to trusting outsiders, but I'm not clear on why. I can promise you, I would never take you anywhere I thought would do you harm."

Kion frowned faintly at the gentle assurances, brows drawing as his gaze skipped towards the fire.

"Cities are bad for elves, let alone Dalish." Maybe Zevlor, as whatever a Hellrider was, spent so little time in the cities that he didn't realize. So many people didn't realize. It was so easy to look the other way.

"You've said that word before, Dalish, but I'm not familiar with it." He watches Kion's response to him, trying to read as much as he can. "I know High elves, Wood elves, and drow. I was guessing that you must be a wood elf; they prefer the wilds, but as far as I know, they're not in any greater danger in a city than any other person."

"I know it's a lot to ask, to ask for an explanation. But I don't think I'm going to be able to understand without your help."

Kion looked just as blank at the listing of other elves, shaking his head at Zevlor's assumption. "There's just... elves. Dalish... live in the woods, but not by choice. Not entirely."

As much as they've adapted to the lifestyle, they mourn what was lost.

"Shem let elves live in cities, but only if they convert. No Dalish. Only in alienages." He shuddered faintly at the thought. "It's bad."

"This is all very foreign to us," Zevlor says, after a glance at his companions to see if they can make any sense of it. "No one is forced to convert in any way in Elturel. Full citizenship requires swearing to the Creed Resolute, but no one would make you do that. Especially not as visitor, at a relatively tender age."

"I don't understand where you've come from that this is something you've experienced."

"Maybe he's from further than he seems to be," the cleric says quietly. "There have been magical fluctuations out here. I investigated one with another team a couple years ago."

"You think he could have come from another plane entirely? But clearly not on purpose." Zevlor looks worried, but it's more for Kion's sake than anything else.

Kion frowned at that, brows drawing as he also tried and failed to make sense of what he was being told.

"I... I've never heard of that. It not being mandatory," He couldn't help the faint flush of worry at the cleric's idea, attention focusing. "There... was an artifact. It... did something but I don't know what. I was in the ruins and then I was here."

The cleric worries her lip for a moment, because it sounds like crossing planes is exactly what happened here. She comes over again and sits on the ground facing Kion. "Can you tell us a little about the ruins you were in? It sounds like there was some sort of magical accident."

Did he really want to talk more about it? Not really. But at the same time, if he was going to get back to his clan from wherever he was now? It seemed like magic would be needed if 'planes' were being crossed. So the cleric would likely be his best bet.

"Old... elvhan ruins. A shrine of some sort, from what was still standing," He frowned as he thought of what might be useful, wringing his hands lightly, letting his gaze skip down to them rather than anyone nearby. "I wound up deeper than I meant to be, some flooring gave way. There was... an old artifact? Normally I wouldn't touch them, but it looked kind of like the ones that would make bridges or open doors, so I risked it. It activated and it... I don't know, rightly. Next I know I'm here."

Zevlor and his cleric exchange glances.

"I think it must have brought you across worlds," she says gently. "And I don't know if there's a way to help you. We can try."

This poor child. Zevlor reaches for his pack and rifles through it gently. "If I give you my journal and a pen, can you try to draw what the artifact looked like?" That'll be a lot easier on him than trying to describe it out loud.