Zevlor does have claws, but using them to fight is a bit uncouth in this day and age. Not to mention they'd be useless versus armor. As the stranger stands, he lowers his blade further, looking him over, and saer he's not entirely convinced you don't have a dagger on you somewhere, but he'll take a chance on civility.

Well. Near-civility, at least. "You've never seen a tiefling, before? In Avernus? Surely you jest." It's dry, and a little bitter, but honestly he's been called worse than possessed before. This is the friendliest conversation he's had with a stranger in a while.

"I'm a Hellrider of Elturel, if that means anything to you." He looks like a wood-elf, and probably not one of Elturel's citizens, or he'd have recognized the insignia Zevlor wears already. "I will free the city or die trying."

He takes his foot off the sword and steps back cautiously. "I would rather save my blade for devils, demons, and the Overseer if I can find him. If you can help me with information, it would be appreciated. I can trade...something, I suppose. I don't have much on me." But no one gives anything for free in the hells, which is where he still thinks he is.