If Zevlor knew he had somehow exited Avernus, the first thing he would do is turn around and try to go right back where he came from, because the work isn't done. Elturel is still bound by infernal iron chains, and his people are dying in droves.

Fortunately, he doesn't know that yet. There are places in the Hells that look not unlike earthly places, and so a dark thicket and a man by a campfire are none too shocking. Neither, sadly, is being greeted by that phrase. Zevlor is not what this man thinks he is, but tieflings are their own kind of abomination, depending who you ask. He pauses for half a second, trying to dredge up reassurances, but then he realizes he's about to be attacked if he doesn't do something and military training kicks in.

A quick lunge, and he plants his foot on the hilt of the other man's sword, while also lowering his own to a defense posture. His tail lashes behind him, and unfortunately it's probably dripping with orthon blood.

"Easy," he says, and his voice rasps like a rusted hinge. "Unless you're a demon, I'm not here to hurt you."

Honestly, even if he were a demon or a devil, Zevlor's unlikely to make the first move. If he wants to just sit next to a fire and hurl insults, it would be a welcome reprieve.