The moon-shard shatters at last under the tenth, or hundredth, or thousandth blow from Barcus' hammer, and for a moment everything goes dark. Which, given the realm of glaring light he was just caught within, is highly ominous, but also a relief to his sensitive eyes. He lies still for a long time, unsure whether he's unconscious or whether the world has simply ceased to exist around him.
He died once before, in Caldera. Can't remember the aftermath. Can't remember where he was, before he became alive again. Maybe this is it? And he finds himself thinking worriedly about the dozens of people who will be very upset with him for dying again, until he starts to hear the soft sounds of crickets chirping around him.
Gradually, his other senses return. The smell of wet earth. A whisper of wind in grass or leaves. His hands are cold, so cold, and stiff. He flexes his fingers gingerly, feels the joints pop unpleasantly. And slowly his eyes open.
He finds himself on a forest path, but it's unlike the forests he knows in Dryad Territory, and even less like the woods of Faerun, which begs a lot of questions.
He will ask those questions. Eventually. When he can sit up and find his voice.
The skies over Avernus are red in the daytime and red in the night, but sometimes smoke and sulfur obscure them to the point of true darkness. Twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the darkness would be no issue for Zevlor's fiery eyes, but decades of working under the constant light of the Companion has left him night-blind, a frailty shared by some other older Hellriders.
A sacrifice he was willing to make, though he was not informed beforehand it would occur. The sacrifice of his soul to Zariel is not one he would have made willingly, and the betrayal of it aches and burns in his chest. His Oath is unbroken; he will fight the devils and save as many of his people as he can. His faith, however, is burning away in hellfire.
He makes his way in the darkness as best he can, smelling of brimstone and blood: his own, and the blood of the devils he's slain. When he does emerge again into the light, he cuts a figure that's more than a little unsettling: tall, horned, bearing a sword and wearing plate armor slick with gore and ashes. Anyone catching a glimpse of him would be excused for assuming he's a threat rather than a hero.
It's not usual to find a stranger so near the perimeter set by the scouts. It's even more unusual to find that stranger unattended— anyone who got this far without being filled with arrows would ordinarily be escorted. What's strangest of all is, Sorrel has really got no idea what in the world he's looking at.
Pointed ears is a good start, but it's as short as a Dwarf, grey as a Qunari, and the proportions are... strange. It's like someone put bits from all over Thedas into one person and then dumped him in one of the more dangerous spots in the forest.
"...Andaran atish’an, stranger," He calls, from a little distance away. Sorrel leans on his staff companionably, his face inked in white, and his green robes well-suited to the wooded surrounds, "You have business here, or are you just unlucky?"
Warden-Commander Theron Mahariel was not a man accustomed to being caught by surprise. He had had 'spawn-sense for a decade now, and was a warrior both wary and fleet. That said, he'd never actually seen many things like Zevlor, crashing in through the shrubbery in this wild and far-removed place, appearing presumably right from the Fade itself, looking very much like a—
"Abomination!" He shouts, and scrambles for his sword. Not gracefully, either— which is what he gets for leaving it all the way over there, opposite the fire from where he'd been reclining.
Stupid mistake, and now he was going to pay for it. Hopefully, at a bargain price.
The green robes and stillness of the stranger mean that it takes Barcus a long few minutes to notice him. Gradually, the gnome sits up, rubs his hands together like they still hurt, and squints uncertainly at the canopy of trees above. That, at least, might convince the elf that he's not much of a threat, given how long he's oblivious to his presence.
He starts when he hears the voice, silver-grey eyes flicking around a moment before he sees him--
Huh. He doesn't know the face, but he knows the phrase. Beleth said it, when they first met. "Andaran atish’an," he echoes, and maybe the accent isn't as perfect as a native speaker, but it does sound like he's spoken the words before.
Of course, he also has to hope it's not cheeky for him to say the words back. It wouldn't do to be rude to a newcomer to...wait. Oh. Oh, dear. "Ah...where...? This isn't Caldera."
It's not really a question, but the answer that seems to be staring him in the face is terrifying. How did this happen? He drags himself to his feet slowly, and he might actually be shorter than a Dwarf, once you see him standing at his full height. Definitely more delicately built than many; a little grey bird of a person.
"Shit," he says, suddenly remembering a bit more of the Dalish lore he's been told. "I'm trespassing, aren't I? My apologies. I mean you no harm."
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.
Ah, fenhedis, he thinks, as Zevlor's foot pins the blade Well done, Warden, that's you dead.
But the abomination doesn't strike— though come to think of it, it's odd that it'd have a weapon to begin with. Claws not enough for you, little guy? Not that he's small for a person, but abominations were so often those huge, lopsided, hulking things.
"Oh, I'm the demon, am I?" He snarled, and then— stopped, "Wait did you— alright, an Abomination that talks. Huh."
Well, now he's seen everything— but he's thought that thought before, and been wrong every time. Slowly, he stands, hands out to show his lack of a weapon— of a visible one, at least. Alright. Alright, fair enough.
"...Uh. So what are you supposed to be, if you're not possessed?"
"Not quite," Sorrel replies, a little nonplussed and trying to make it come off with confidence. He isn't terrible successful, "But you are a bit closer to our perimeter than anyone smart would care to be. Not that we won't have you gone, just the same."
It would be agony to have to move so soon after establishing themselves, of course, but needs must. Still, maybe it wouldn't come to that; this strange little... deformed Dwarf child? What are you? He didn't seem like the kind of thing humans took advice from...
Best to get more information, anyroad; the Keeper would want to know everything.
"What happened to you, to dump you out here like this? You're lucky Lavellan isn't a shem-hunting clan. "
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.
"I was in a rift," he says, looking increasingly concerned. "There was...a disaster, tears in reality. We were all trying to seal them."
The idea of the moon shards creating a passage between worlds isn't too crazy; magic does such things. He has to get back, though, and he certainly can't afford to die outside of Caldera. He holds up both hands, belatedly showing he's mostly unarmed, though there is a dagger in the sheath at his waist. Barcus certainly knows he's not fast enough with it to take an elf by surprise from this distance, even if he wanted to fight.
(Also, deformed?? He begs your pardon, he's a very handsome gnome!)
"Please don't kill me," he somehow manages to sound more long-suffering and irritated than actually afraid. "I have so many things to do, you have no idea."
But wait-- "Lavellan? Is...is Beleth here?" If she came through the rift too, they can work together and presumably her clan won't kill him!
The name has an effect; Sorrel stiffens, and a sensation not unlike ice goes through the whole of him, shocking and abrupt and it kicks his heart where it's tenderest and sets it to galloping. A thousand wondering questions run through his mind all at once babbling like a crowd of children: how did he know Beleth? Did she get into, somehow more than usual, trouble? Did she need them? Did she send this person?
Did this little thing even know her to begin with? It could all be a lie.
"Right," Sorrel says, abruptly more focused, his staff tilting more readily in his hand; on guard, "You're going to tell me who you are, what you want, and where you got that name from, and if you lie to me I'm going to set you on fire."
"Spoken like a man who's gonna die trying," He replies genially, but with fatalistic confidence, "Take it from me, the heroic thing never works out. Though this is Rivain, not uh... That."
Which isn't to say he's not just as bad with the heroism, mind. But it takes one to know one.
"What city is this? Not the Black City, right?" There is a pause, to consider this. Right? Not the Black City? Not the ever-present castle in the sky of every dream, where once the Maker himself was said to dwell? Not the divine throne of power, right? "...Right?"
Well, he's not clear on what sort of tactical error he's made, but he seems to have made one. Beleth's name is familiar, obviously, but that reaction could mean the elf hasn't heard from her in a long time and he's worried or it could mean there is discord between them that Barcus is entirely ignorant of. He's quiet for a long few moments, pale eyes searching the elf's face, trying to read him.
"The problem with that," he says finally, "is it's not an easy tale to believe. I'll do my best, though. I've no reason to lie."
"My name is Barcus Wroot. I'm a deep gnome from another world entirely, called Toril. You won't have seen my kind before. But Beleth and myself and, mm, quite a lot of others, were brought into a place called Caldera, via magical rifts."
(Should he mention Solas is there? Probably not, but he might have to, to fully round out the explanation.)
"The leadership of Caldera wanted help in saving the place from..." he gestures vaguely with one hand. "Honestly, we're not clear on the full extent or cause for what's going wrong. Twists in the local magic, weird monsters, that sort of thing. It's a work in progress."
"I met Beleth when she first arrived. She was considering one of the underwater quests and I gave her some flares to assist. She was interested in how they're made, the chemical reaction that allows them to give light underwater."
Zevlor actually laughs at that. "Well, if I don't die trying here, I'm sure I'll find some other way later, never fear."
He's supposed to. Hellriders don't retire.
"But more to the point: Rivain?" He shakes his head, mystified. "I'm unfamiliar, but the geography of Avernus has certainly never been a subject of study for me before." And now he has a creeping feeling of misgiving. Is it possible to cross over from one Hell into another? Is it possible to slip through to another plane entirely? Zevlor takes another half-step back and sheathes his sword, but his tail-tip is lashing behind him with agitation.
"Elturel is known as the White City. Nearly everything is white stone. For fifty years there was no night, until we were dragged into the Hells and the Companion turned dark."
And now he's desperately confused. "What is the name of the nearest city here? What do you call this...ngh...country? Region?"
The story is strange, oddly detailed, and full of the stupidest shit one can imagine coming out of anyone's imagination. Half of it is made-up words, like gnome, and place-names that Sorrel's never heard of. But it all rolls out of him with such easy aplomb, casually dismissive of the complete babbling insanity of it all, that it's somehow hard to dismiss. Which is to say... It takes a great deal of effort not to interrupt the little man at every turn, and— despite all his better judgement— Sorrel is beginning to believe that it might not be a lie. Lies, after all, tended to be more believable than this.
What the hell had Beleth gotten herself into now? And how?
"You do realize that all sounds made-up," He mutters, not at all quietly. June's own hand couldn't pen a stranger tale, "...Except for the bit where Bel' wants to tinker."
She always was like that, after all. Fussing with fire. Trying to make little potions, even as a child. Sorrel runs a hand through his hair and then down, to the back of his neck, where he grips, and grimaces, and—
"Oh, I am so stupid. Look, you turn around and walk away, and I'll tell the scouts you were a few hundred paces out there, and not over here inside the perimeter. We can talk there, if you want. And— I'm Sorrel. Sorrelean Lavellan," He says, throwing it in as an afterthought, "I'm Beleth's brother. She's my twin."
It's a good damned joke, he'll give you that; nobody appreciates gallows humor like a Warden. Theron is smirking without really meaning to and— oh, are you really this easy then, Mahariel?
Well, of course he is. That's how he gets into his more interesting troubles, after all.
"Rivain," He repeats, a little bemused. You're an odd one, "Everything from here east into the sea is Rivain. You go south for a few weeks you'll get to Dairsmurd, which you won't want to, because they'll call for the Templars and have your head. East is two kinds of ocean, unless you want to follow the road, which—" He gestures, a loose, open-palmed gesture to indicate the aforementioned chopping, "And all that'll get you is Antiva, eventually...Which is... I mean, it's a lot of Assassins, and they're not exactly nicer about the horned demon-man look."
Which is to say: welcome to Thedas.
"Sounds like you're even farther from home than I am. My name's Mahariel, I'm a Grey Warden. Why don't you sit down for a minute, and we'll work this out?"
Barcus does wish he had more detail to share on what exactly Caldera's problems were, but going into the fact that the moon just attacked them would really make him sound insane. Best not to stretch this man's credulity any further than he has to. He lets out a soft huff of amusement when he comments about Bel wants to tinker. "Well, obviously. That's the best proof I could offer that I know her, isn't it? She's clever. I wish she'd come around the workshop more often, actually. She's made me a few fire-resistance potions in return that have come in handy."
He quiets, gaze trying to search the stranger's face from a distance, and then he nods his understanding. "Which direction do you want me to go in?" The soft sobriety of the question ought to tell Sorrel that he understand the full weight of it. Barcus' village had scouts, too, and they were meant to shoot strangers on sight. Sorrel could send him right into a trap or ambush; the gnome is offering his full trust here.
When pointed, he'll go without question, hands resting loose at his sides, and count out the distance in his head before he stops and sits on a fallen tree to wait and see what happens next.
There's a pause of about thirty seconds as the tiefling tries to read the other man, tries to calculate the likelihood that he's lying or insane, concludes that even if he were a devil in disguise it would be pointless to come to Zevlor to lie, and slowly steps back and sinks to the ground, sitting heavily.
"I don't know how this happened, but I have to get back," he says quietly. "Zurgan. I suppose you really haven't seen a tiefling before."
He rubs his temples gingerly with the backs of clawed fingers. "Zevlor. My name. It's Zevlor. I'm afraid I don't know what a Grey Warden is, either, but I'll accept whatever assistance you're willing to give."
Sorrel watches him go, to be sure he's going, and then sighs and turns on his heel. Right. What to do about this, then?
But for Barcus, time passes; it would have passed, regardless. An hour crawls by, the shadows shifting as the sun travels. Up above him in the sky, a pale daytime moon is showing— and another, smaller, a few handspans away in the sky. Two moons. Then the elf comes out of the underbrush, staff in hand. He looks around a moment, spots Barcus, and sighs. Oh, you're still here.
He had hoped, somehow, that the problem might've gone away. Then he could go back to the clan shrug and say it had been nothing, and not have to answer a thousand questions with uncertainty, or worse: lies.
"Right," he says, and offers Barcus the sack he's carrying, "You don't look like you have any supplies, and there's no camps near enough here that we know of. You're not from Wycome, we'd know, so— here. Never let it be said that Clan Lavellan has forgotten hospitality."
The sack is actually a square of cloth, green-dyed and hand-woven with a finely-stitched whorling pattern around its border, as if the thread had been tied in an endless series of complex knots. Inside is a bottle of dark and fragrant drink, a vellum-wrapped packet of smoked venison, and three nut-studded flatbreads, still warm. Enough for a meal or two, if you stretched it all, or to fill the hungry belly of an inopportune traveler.
"Can you tell me, what's come of my sister?" He says then, not waiting for him to actually tuck in, "If she's well?"
"Don't know what a Warden is," Theron begins on a laugh, but— "Oh. Creators, you're serious."
That's terrible. And not a little terrifying, come to mention it. Though, true, he doesn't know exactly what a Tiefling is, in turn, but it's clear enough that whatever it is, this ruddy-faced gentleman is one. Ergo, that's what a tiefling is. As well as a Hellrider, or whatever else he'd like to call himself.
Such as, for example, Zevlor. Not even Mahariel's first Zev, and he decides to count it as a good omen. Few enough of those to not be miserly about them, after all.
"A Grey Warden uh... we're a kind of knightly order?" He ends the sentence on a grimace to go with the uncertain tone, "Only not so much with the actual knights. The Wardens will accept anyone who wants to join— or try to Join, anyways. We fight Darkspawn, and end Blights, and only a Warden can kill an Archdemon, which I incidentally have done, so... That's was a Warden is. I'm assuming a Tiefling is what you are, then?"
The passage of time is both nerve-wracking and reassuring. On the one hand, he half expects to be shot at any moment. If the Dalish are anything like deep gnomes, it would almost be irresponsible not to kill him. And he certainly doesn't want to die here!
On the other hand, the longer he waits, the more he doubts he's going to be hurt, but the more, also, he doubts Sorrel will return to clarify things to him, and if he doesn't, that's going to leave him quite lost. Suffice to say, the gnome has mentally died a thousand deaths by the time the elf returns, turning over all sorts of thoughts. How did he get here? How to get back? What to do if he can't return? He is not just a stranger to this world, but also a race that's going to be unfamiliar to everyone. They're going to think he's some sort of little imp-thing, probably, and put him in a zoo.
He starts slightly when Sorrel emerges from the bush, but looks deeply relieved. Congratulations, saer, you're the only thing he has in this world to navigate by. He's utterly surprised by the gift, let alone the implication that it's been offered not just by Sorrel but as a truce by the rest of the Clan. Maybe a 'here, we won't kill you but go fuck off' gift. That's downright friendly by his standards. He smiles, accepting the sack gratefully. "Thank you. I genuinely don't know enough about the woods here to navigate out and back, so your secret is safe regardless, but I promise my complete discretion anyway. Sworn by the Stones."
The bread is still warm, and Barcus marvels at that for a moment. He's not that hungry, but he'll break a piece of it off to nibble, partly to show trust and partly because bread fresh from the oven shouldn't be wasted.
"She's well," he says at once, before taking a bite. "She is..."
Well, here's where he has to mention certain individuals, or start being openly evasive. At least he knows better than to refer to him as Fen'Harel. "She has a home in Caldera, with Solas...? And another friend. I don't know if you know...um." Actually, let him just stop here and see how he reacts first.
Zevlor gives an ironic little smile that dissolves into a weak laugh. "Ah. Then we're a similar thing, you and I, merely from different planes and in different orders. Hellriders are the elite cavalry of Elturel. Were, I fear, since the city's fall. We swear a sacred oath to serve the city, the overseer, and the innocent within the realm."
He trails off, the flickering flames in his eyes dulling for a moment. "We were betrayed. I will continue to do my duty, of course, no matter what, but I hope that you are oathbound to something more worthy of you."
"I must have taken out a dozen Orthons in the last forty-eight hours, but I fear an Archdemon is well beyond my capabilities. We may or may not be talking about the same thing, though. I do not think the Archdevils or Archdemons I'm aware of can die. Just get shunted to lesser circles of the Hells, perhaps." Still, if they are talking about beings of similar capabilities, he could be looking at the greatest potential ally he's ever seen in his life, and that doesn't escape him.
He nods, looking him over curiously. "I've had many elves among my comrades, so at least we have that knowledge in common. Tieflings are born of ordinary folk--usually humans, but sometimes also elves, dwarves, and other races. An ordinary couple will birth a creature like myself. Sometimes they have made a bargain or dabbled in magic, but other times there is nothing upon which to immediately blame the emergence of a tiefling."
"Over time, tieflings have found one another and joined together in families. Two tieflings may have a child that appears human, but it's far more common for us to produce more of ourselves. There is, alas, a devil's influence in our blood, though none of us asked for it. Asmodeus sought to use us as a tool to conquer the Material Plane, a long while ago. That he has thus far failed, and that most of us would rather see him or ourselves annihilated than serve his will, makes little difference to the people around us."
"So it does sting a bit to be reminded I'm an abomination, but I cannot blame you for the assumption." He shrugs. "It is what it is. I am, distantly, devil-spawn. But my heart is the same as yours."
Mahariel does not know what an Orthon is, but twenty minutes ago he didn't know what a Tiefling was, either. Probably an Ogre, or something similar? Who can say. A big, mean thing, regardless. But he listens amiably, reaching to stir up the fire and add more fuel as Zevlor speaks, the better to lay on something edible for the both of them, time willing. But he does snort a laugh, when Zevlor offers his opinion on the questionable mortality of Archdemons.
"See, that's the thing about Archdemons. If just any fool comes and puts a few feet of steel through their brains, the don't die. You have it exactly right, it's just off to the next place," This pointed out with the hand holding the stick, "But that's the point of we Wardens; rhey only die when one of us does it. There's a trick to it, obviously, and it usually does kill the Warden too, in the process... but hey, who's counting?"
Not many. Not even him, truth be told; Theron had not known if their little gambit would work, until it had. Wardens were meant to die heroically, after all, and he'd borrowed more than his fair share of time already.
"...Demons can reproduce. I really hate that news," He informs Zevlor, with cheerful candor, "But I suppose if the result is just people, that's different. Still.
Sorrel waits, listening with a faintly pinched expression, right up until the name; Solas, which engenders a full-bodied grimace. It's as if she were right in front of him, his hands coming up, the question alive in every line of the gesture: what the hell are you thinking?.
"Solas!?" He cries, deep in his exasperation, "That fucking ponce, she's back with him? After everything he's— He is literally Fen'Harel!"
Which might mean anything.
"Creators beyond the veil, what is wrong with her? She is so much smarter than this. I thought she was—" Sorrel starts, seeming to recognize, or remember, the inappropriate audience he seems to find himself with, "...Sorry, it's just so damned frustrating. I could shake her."
...He can't help himself. "Ah," he says mildly, deadpan. "So you do know him, then."
Look, he's reasonably sure Solas would think it was funny, too.
He gives a little shake of his head a moment later, adding: "You're not giving her enough credit. She knows exactly what she's doing, even if her reasoning doesn't add up to you. Trust her. She's giving up a lot for him, but not without getting just as much in return."
"Anyway, they're both very dear to me. Both her and Solas." So, you know, maybe don't put your foot in your mouth, saer. Although it's not as if Barcus is in a position to fight for anyone's honor, even if he wished to. "I do understand he might not be your first choice as an in-law; he's certainly...complicated. But whatever other history they may have, he is devoted to her now."
"And neither of them asked to be brought to Caldera, so there's that."
It isn't just that the formula in the serum used to create him was subtly different, or that one of the things it heightened was his pre-existing strong sense of justice, or even the time he served after the serum, operating on his own and outside their (or anyone else's) control. It isn't even wholly the relatively short amount of time they've had with him, since excavating him out of a block of ice.
It's all of them, and the upshot of all of them is that they can't quite completely overwrite his sense of identity, or entirely erase his memories. That doesn't mean he's himself - he's not, but he's not the point and shoot weapon they'd like him to be.
He is disoriented a lot of the time. He is more disoriented when he gets woken up, pulled out and taken to (and into) a 'holding' cell in one of their facilities to watch (guard?)--
a really short guy, who is definitely not human.
What the hell has HYDRA done now?
Steve stares for a second, expression pointedly blank, and slowly tilts his head over to one side. He says nothing until the agent who brought him down leaves. Even then it's still pretty blank and exactly one word.
Barcus is, unfortunately, an old hand at being a captive at this point. He is, naturally, petrified, but the way he's been showing it has been mostly just flinching and pulling away when one of them tries to touch him. This hasn't been successful. Several fluid and tissue samples have been taken from him, but not enough to do him any long-standing harm.
That's the part that unnerves him. No one's put a pick in his hands and pushed him into a mineshaft. No one's strung him to a windmill. If this is meant to be torture, they're not very good at it.
No, he's pretty sure this is study. Experimentation. He doesn't like being the subject thereof.
The person brought to his cell--he too assumes this is a new guard--is clearly human. A knight or fighter of some sort. He doesn't seem like he's all there, though. The way he tilts his head reminds the gnome uncomfortably of thralls of the Absolute. Mindflayers-in-waiting, with something of themselves still in there, fighting for its life.
He says nothing until the other guard leaves, either, mostly because he's been pretending not to speak their language. The accent is weird, but it's quite close to common. He can fake it. He refuses to try for them.
A simple hello, though? He would assume this is some sort of emotional manipulation tactic, sending him a potential friend to get him to crack, except they haven't been trying to crack him in the first place. He just looks up at the soldier for a long moment, stone-faced, but after a glance around and a reluctant grumble he decides he can only play dumb for a finite amount of time anyway.
"Hello. I don't suppose there's any chance of getting something to read in here, is there? Only if something horrible is going to happen to me, I'm already getting bored waiting for it."
Steve's actually wondering if this is supposed to be some new tactic for them to try on him, or if they're just so preoccupied that they are actually using him as a guard because they expect the tiny guy with pointed ears to be enough of a threat to rank a super soldier standing guard inside the cell.
Maybe it's both. Are they smart enough for that? Leverage over Steve, and the other guy lowering his guard enough for information?
"Maybe." He feels like he's got something of himself in him fighting for its life, especially in the sense that he actually has been here long enough to be afraid of them, even if he hasn't been 'broken' to their satisfaction.
He has absolutely no idea what's going on, or what the plan is. "Unless they're trying boredom as torture, they might actually hand over a book. How long have you been here?"
Could be a little of both. Could be they're having trouble closing the door they brought the little guy through (doors swing both ways, after all) and are reluctant to let their pet project get close enough to it to escape.
Without his workbench and several days to prepare, Barcus is no physical threat to a baseline human, let alone a super-soldier, so they needn't worry on that count. He's not without his own bent of resourcefulness, though, and he's taking in every detail on this man--clothing, vocal quality, body language--analyzing him like his life depends on it.
Maybe, he says and unless they're trying. That 'they' is the most interesting part. He's not one of them, then, or not in their good graces. Not in charge, for sure. The little man rubs the back of his neck, sighs, and makes a point of standing down, turning and taking a slow walk to the cot they've left him, and sitting cross-legged on the edge.
"A few days, I believe. Not long, but the accommodations could be more welcoming. And you? I rather thought you were brought in to intimidate me at first, but you're starting off slow if that's the case. What's your name?"
Steve should probably be more careful, in the event that they're being watched. Hell, it's likely they're being watched, and listened to. Steve knows it.
In spite of the fairly... remote facial expression, severe black-on-black military outfit, and ramrod straight posture...
He isn't that careful about what he says and won't be. For one thing, these are basic questions that don't worry him. For another, HYDRA hasn't gotten anywhere near managing to make Steve actively dishonest. He wasn't great at subterfuge before HYDRA, and he's not good for that now.
"I have no idea how long I've been here. My name's Steve. What's yours?" Vocal quality? ...Conversational but faintly amused. Not mocking or mean just aware 'I don't know' is stupid, and having a normal conversation with whoever (and whatever) this guy is, is bizarre. For Steve, anyway.
The gnome has already concluded that if this man isn't there to spy on him, they're both being watched from outside, one way or another. Good times.
Meanwhile, 'I don't know' is a striking answer. It could be evasive, but in that tone of voice it comes across as honest. Another captive, then, the gnome decides, though perhaps not fully trustworthy because they've compromised him somehow.
"Steve," he echoes, in a tone of voice that clearly expresses what the hell kind of name is Steve?. Humans have odd naming conventions. "Hm. Well. My name is Barcus. Barcus Wroot. Presumably, we won't have heard of one another."
He rolls his shoulders a little, consciously trying to release the tension he's been holding since he landed here. Save some of that for later. "I hope Thulla remembers to feed my cats. They're resourceful enough to find their own prey if they must, but Mishka will absolutely ruin the carpet if he eats a slug."
Not just a normal conversation, aggressively normal, like the little man is determined to bring this under control by acting like it's no big deal.
Steve does not sit down, but he does drop a shoulder to lean against the wall. Sitting would be too much relaxation, standing bolt upright is a thing he could do but sees no reason to. This is, for now, his middle ground.
He does not take his eyes off Barcus, though. "We won't have. I don't even know what you are." Which is insulting probably - the answer is 'a person' - but his social graces are more than a little rusty.
He really wants to know where the hell Hydra found him. Wherever and however he's here is probably bad news for everyone, though at least probably not Steve's immediate issue.
"How are your cats getting in and out of the house to hunt, and then ruin your carpet?" Barely there pause - "And who's Thulla?"
He seems to take minimal offense to that question. Given how much the others have been prodding him, he doubts they have gnomes here. If they did have, this whole thing would be tidier and less cruelly haphazard. "A gnome. A deep gnome, specifically, out of the Underdark. I think they were looking for something with a more threatening profile."
Like the automatons he was working on dismantling. Which he will not be mentioning any time soon.
"Alas, I'm a mere mechanic, so they'll have to get used to disappointment."
In contrast to his reaction to the question about what he is, he seems incredulous about this latter one: "Oh don't tell me you lot haven't heard of such a thing as a cat flap! You seem to be reasonably technically advanced, I'm sure one of you could invent it, given proper tools."
"... although, I'm not overly impressed by your approach. Plenty of military discipline, no intellectual discipline." He waves a hand apologetically. "Not you personally. The whole cabal or whatever this is."
"I assume they're working out how to use me for parts." And this man is the muscle, whether he likes it or not. "But cults tend not to breed innovation. Sooner or later they'll trip over their own stupid hive-mind."
He hesitates a moment, then answers, "A friend of mine. Thulla is, I mean. My second chief, of my laborer's guild."
The combination of 'reasonably technologically advanced', 'mechanic', and 'looking for something more threatening' are, in combination, a very likely answer to what has been going on.
He's not necessarily correct. He is relieved that he's able to find some sense in what has, until this second, been completely confounding him.
Not that he knows how they'd have gotten to anywhere known as the Underdark or a gnome. He's not exactly well informed about the outside world, though, and 'internet' would currently confound him nearly as much. It at least keeps him credulous.
"I don't know that there are no cat flaps." His tone is dry. "Count yourself lucky I know what a cat is." Also dry. "Or maybe I'm who should consider myself lucky." This conversation is going toward something dangerous with outward criticism of Hydra, and he just ... can't.
"Explain what you mean by intellectual discipline?" That's a...safer direction. He hopes.
It's a bit rich for him to be casting aspersions upon their technical expertise here, when you come right down to it. His world relies far more heavily on magic than technological innovation, but as the proverb goes, sometimes it's hard to distinguish one from the other, when they're fantastical enough. He has secrets HYDRA might like, and that's what's important for now.
"Mm, well, it's a little swinging door sized for a cat to come and go from the house," Barcus explains with a dismissive wave. "Every now and again an opossum creeps in, as well, unfortunately."
If it seems like he's not reacting to Steve's comment about being lucky, that's good, because he's trying not to. He adds mind altered, memory erasure? to his mental list of what's going on with this strange man.
"Intellectual discipline is focused inward," he explains grimly. "It's clear they have a strong hierarchy here, and a sense of purpose, but no one's holding themselves accountable for what they discover. Innovation must be handled with patience and care, even if you're planning on using it for evil purposes, else it will get away from you. They're lucky I'm the only thing that's come through the gateway they opened to my world, so far."
Steve has questions. Steve has many questions, and he has those questions for many reasons. He can't ask most of them, because those answers would all be the information Hydra would want - or so he assumes.
He also isn't at all sure whether he's being told the truth or this is information for their likely invisible audience to try to convince them to close the damn gate. Except... why would he want that? He can't go home if that happens.
"Were you conscious when you came through?" That's... fairly safe. He thinks. Nothing like trying to find a way to stop the entire ass world he has no connection to at all anymore from going down, when also relatively helpless and effectively brainwashed and mind wiped. "Or brought to this cell?"
"I assume, of course, they'll be questioning me about what could come through from home in short order," he goes on. "Not that I'm accusing you of anything personally, but the only reason to put two people in captivity together is to see if they'll talk to each other. Either they're listening or they'll have you repeat what I've just said."
It's fine. He hasn't let anything slip yet. Nor has he lied.
"I was...in and out of consciousness, I think," he says with a frown. "One moment I was in my workshop, and then I was so dizzy and nauseous I couldn't see or think, and then I was in a repulsive-smelling room with a bunch of hulking great humans surrounding me."
There's a momentary pause, and then he adds: "I've been playing dumb up until now. You can tell them I'm a gnome, if you like. I don't think it will matter to them."
"There's at least one other reason," Steve says, very dryly. He's not relaxed enough to sit down, but he actually wishes he were. It would be physically more comfortable and he'd stop looming over Barcus. "Leverage. That one's a matter of opportunity, rather than a primary objective."
Does he count as being 'in captivity'? Sure. It's a strange thought.
He really wishes he were dumber sometimes. He would much prefer not seeing the potential, massive, dangerous problems in what else might come through that door. It would save him all sorts of (literal) headaches.
"Leverage?" He blinks. "What, they think we're going to get attached to one another? We're not even the same species."
In fairness, this is him putting on a front, on some level. Already, he feels considerable, if wary, compassion for this strange human. There's nothing for either of them to gain by acting like it, though. If Steve has an iota of intelligence--and the gnome is pretty sure he does--he'll understand. "They overestimate my charisma, I fear, if that's the case. They should have brought you a pretty elf, or maybe a halfling. Everyone likes halflings, they can't help it. Hells, I like halflings."
"No one cares what happens to gnomes. Especially deep gnomes."
"I would like to go home," he nods agreeably. "However, not at the expense of your entire civilization and/or universe. We have our problems under control in Faerun at the moment, but I hate to see what a handful of mindflayers would do to a realm that's not prepared for them."
Zevlor tilts his head, processing the information, and makes a faint humming noise. "It's a rare person who can even get close enough to one to put steel through them, I assume. But you said you had slain one and survived? Is this proprietary information, or may I ask for details?"
He shakes his head then. "Demons and devils are different entities, to my knowledge. One is Abyssal and of chaos, the other is Infernal and follows its own wicked laws. They are at constant war with one another, lucky for the rest of us, because either side turning its attention toward mortals could be disastrous."
"I have heard both devilish and demonic influence can appear in an innocent bloodline, but demons are far rarer. Perhaps their attention span is lacking."
"Most people think of me as a pretty lax Warden, but I am sworn to secrecy. Unless you wanna join up and become a fellow-Warden, of course," He says, in tones indicating that it's a joke— but not enough of one that he'll not take it seriously, if Zevlor does, "Though I won't lie, you're a better candidate for hiding truths than most, if I'm any judge."
Because nobody is going to talk to you, Zevlor. Because of how you look, and how people are... and because the secret really is just that terrible, when you get down to it. It does sound like something a demon would say.
"I've heard people call everything that isn't human some variation on all that. But I'm no scholar— as you can see. What isn't trying to kill or chain me, I can let live. Otherwise..." Theron shrugs, easy nonchalance, "I kill it instead. No matter how big or powerful. It's a policy that's worked well, so far."
"You like cats." That is a solid, valid point. You're not the same species as a cat, they can be assholes, and you're clearly worried about your cats. What the heck does species and charm have to do with anything.
Also, truthfully, Steve's pretty sure this one is more about them gaining leverage over him than the other way around.
"All right." Good info. Means if he can get a chance and enough info, maybe he can shut this thing down. Pay for it, but at least that's not the entire universe or planet paying for it. Mindflayer seems like something would think they'd be able to use, but almost certainly couldn't control. The situation for everyone else doesn't improve if they can. "Maybe they'll be smarter about it than usual."
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Caught in the Rift (Caldera CRAU)
He died once before, in Caldera. Can't remember the aftermath. Can't remember where he was, before he became alive again. Maybe this is it? And he finds himself thinking worriedly about the dozens of people who will be very upset with him for dying again, until he starts to hear the soft sounds of crickets chirping around him.
Gradually, his other senses return. The smell of wet earth. A whisper of wind in grass or leaves. His hands are cold, so cold, and stiff. He flexes his fingers gingerly, feels the joints pop unpleasantly. And slowly his eyes open.
He finds himself on a forest path, but it's unlike the forests he knows in Dryad Territory, and even less like the woods of Faerun, which begs a lot of questions.
He will ask those questions. Eventually. When he can sit up and find his voice.
All You've Got to Do is Fall
A sacrifice he was willing to make, though he was not informed beforehand it would occur. The sacrifice of his soul to Zariel is not one he would have made willingly, and the betrayal of it aches and burns in his chest. His Oath is unbroken; he will fight the devils and save as many of his people as he can. His faith, however, is burning away in hellfire.
He makes his way in the darkness as best he can, smelling of brimstone and blood: his own, and the blood of the devils he's slain. When he does emerge again into the light, he cuts a figure that's more than a little unsettling: tall, horned, bearing a sword and wearing plate armor slick with gore and ashes. Anyone catching a glimpse of him would be excused for assuming he's a threat rather than a hero.
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Pointed ears is a good start, but it's as short as a Dwarf, grey as a Qunari, and the proportions are... strange. It's like someone put bits from all over Thedas into one person and then dumped him in one of the more dangerous spots in the forest.
"...Andaran atish’an, stranger," He calls, from a little distance away. Sorrel leans on his staff companionably, his face inked in white, and his green robes well-suited to the wooded surrounds, "You have business here, or are you just unlucky?"
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"Abomination!" He shouts, and scrambles for his sword. Not gracefully, either— which is what he gets for leaving it all the way over there, opposite the fire from where he'd been reclining.
Stupid mistake, and now he was going to pay for it. Hopefully, at a bargain price.
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He starts when he hears the voice, silver-grey eyes flicking around a moment before he sees him--
Huh. He doesn't know the face, but he knows the phrase. Beleth said it, when they first met. "Andaran atish’an," he echoes, and maybe the accent isn't as perfect as a native speaker, but it does sound like he's spoken the words before.
Of course, he also has to hope it's not cheeky for him to say the words back. It wouldn't do to be rude to a newcomer to...wait. Oh. Oh, dear. "Ah...where...? This isn't Caldera."
It's not really a question, but the answer that seems to be staring him in the face is terrifying. How did this happen? He drags himself to his feet slowly, and he might actually be shorter than a Dwarf, once you see him standing at his full height. Definitely more delicately built than many; a little grey bird of a person.
"Shit," he says, suddenly remembering a bit more of the Dalish lore he's been told. "I'm trespassing, aren't I? My apologies. I mean you no harm."
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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.
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But the abomination doesn't strike— though come to think of it, it's odd that it'd have a weapon to begin with. Claws not enough for you, little guy? Not that he's small for a person, but abominations were so often those huge, lopsided, hulking things.
"Oh, I'm the demon, am I?" He snarled, and then— stopped, "Wait did you— alright, an Abomination that talks. Huh."
Well, now he's seen everything— but he's thought that thought before, and been wrong every time. Slowly, he stands, hands out to show his lack of a weapon— of a visible one, at least. Alright. Alright, fair enough.
"...Uh. So what are you supposed to be, if you're not possessed?"
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It would be agony to have to move so soon after establishing themselves, of course, but needs must. Still, maybe it wouldn't come to that; this strange little... deformed Dwarf child? What are you? He didn't seem like the kind of thing humans took advice from...
Best to get more information, anyroad; the Keeper would want to know everything.
"What happened to you, to dump you out here like this? You're lucky Lavellan isn't a shem-hunting clan. "
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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.
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The idea of the moon shards creating a passage between worlds isn't too crazy; magic does such things. He has to get back, though, and he certainly can't afford to die outside of Caldera. He holds up both hands, belatedly showing he's mostly unarmed, though there is a dagger in the sheath at his waist. Barcus certainly knows he's not fast enough with it to take an elf by surprise from this distance, even if he wanted to fight.
(Also, deformed?? He begs your pardon, he's a very handsome gnome!)
"Please don't kill me," he somehow manages to sound more long-suffering and irritated than actually afraid. "I have so many things to do, you have no idea."
But wait-- "Lavellan? Is...is Beleth here?" If she came through the rift too, they can work together and presumably her clan won't kill him!
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Did this little thing even know her to begin with? It could all be a lie.
"Right," Sorrel says, abruptly more focused, his staff tilting more readily in his hand; on guard, "You're going to tell me who you are, what you want, and where you got that name from, and if you lie to me I'm going to set you on fire."
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Which isn't to say he's not just as bad with the heroism, mind. But it takes one to know one.
"What city is this? Not the Black City, right?" There is a pause, to consider this. Right? Not the Black City? Not the ever-present castle in the sky of every dream, where once the Maker himself was said to dwell? Not the divine throne of power, right? "...Right?"
Weirder things have happened.
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"The problem with that," he says finally, "is it's not an easy tale to believe. I'll do my best, though. I've no reason to lie."
"My name is Barcus Wroot. I'm a deep gnome from another world entirely, called Toril. You won't have seen my kind before. But Beleth and myself and, mm, quite a lot of others, were brought into a place called Caldera, via magical rifts."
(Should he mention Solas is there? Probably not, but he might have to, to fully round out the explanation.)
"The leadership of Caldera wanted help in saving the place from..." he gestures vaguely with one hand. "Honestly, we're not clear on the full extent or cause for what's going wrong. Twists in the local magic, weird monsters, that sort of thing. It's a work in progress."
"I met Beleth when she first arrived. She was considering one of the underwater quests and I gave her some flares to assist. She was interested in how they're made, the chemical reaction that allows them to give light underwater."
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He's supposed to. Hellriders don't retire.
"But more to the point: Rivain?" He shakes his head, mystified. "I'm unfamiliar, but the geography of Avernus has certainly never been a subject of study for me before." And now he has a creeping feeling of misgiving. Is it possible to cross over from one Hell into another? Is it possible to slip through to another plane entirely? Zevlor takes another half-step back and sheathes his sword, but his tail-tip is lashing behind him with agitation.
"Elturel is known as the White City. Nearly everything is white stone. For fifty years there was no night, until we were dragged into the Hells and the Companion turned dark."
And now he's desperately confused. "What is the name of the nearest city here? What do you call this...ngh...country? Region?"
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What the hell had Beleth gotten herself into now? And how?
"You do realize that all sounds made-up," He mutters, not at all quietly. June's own hand couldn't pen a stranger tale, "...Except for the bit where Bel' wants to tinker."
She always was like that, after all. Fussing with fire. Trying to make little potions, even as a child. Sorrel runs a hand through his hair and then down, to the back of his neck, where he grips, and grimaces, and—
"Oh, I am so stupid. Look, you turn around and walk away, and I'll tell the scouts you were a few hundred paces out there, and not over here inside the perimeter. We can talk there, if you want. And— I'm Sorrel. Sorrelean Lavellan," He says, throwing it in as an afterthought, "I'm Beleth's brother. She's my twin."
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Well, of course he is. That's how he gets into his more interesting troubles, after all.
"Rivain," He repeats, a little bemused. You're an odd one, "Everything from here east into the sea is Rivain. You go south for a few weeks you'll get to Dairsmurd, which you won't want to, because they'll call for the Templars and have your head. East is two kinds of ocean, unless you want to follow the road, which—" He gestures, a loose, open-palmed gesture to indicate the aforementioned chopping, "And all that'll get you is Antiva, eventually...Which is... I mean, it's a lot of Assassins, and they're not exactly nicer about the horned demon-man look."
Which is to say: welcome to Thedas.
"Sounds like you're even farther from home than I am. My name's Mahariel, I'm a Grey Warden. Why don't you sit down for a minute, and we'll work this out?"
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He quiets, gaze trying to search the stranger's face from a distance, and then he nods his understanding. "Which direction do you want me to go in?" The soft sobriety of the question ought to tell Sorrel that he understand the full weight of it. Barcus' village had scouts, too, and they were meant to shoot strangers on sight. Sorrel could send him right into a trap or ambush; the gnome is offering his full trust here.
When pointed, he'll go without question, hands resting loose at his sides, and count out the distance in his head before he stops and sits on a fallen tree to wait and see what happens next.
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"I don't know how this happened, but I have to get back," he says quietly. "Zurgan. I suppose you really haven't seen a tiefling before."
He rubs his temples gingerly with the backs of clawed fingers. "Zevlor. My name. It's Zevlor. I'm afraid I don't know what a Grey Warden is, either, but I'll accept whatever assistance you're willing to give."
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But for Barcus, time passes; it would have passed, regardless. An hour crawls by, the shadows shifting as the sun travels. Up above him in the sky, a pale daytime moon is showing— and another, smaller, a few handspans away in the sky. Two moons. Then the elf comes out of the underbrush, staff in hand. He looks around a moment, spots Barcus, and sighs. Oh, you're still here.
He had hoped, somehow, that the problem might've gone away. Then he could go back to the clan shrug and say it had been nothing, and not have to answer a thousand questions with uncertainty, or worse: lies.
"Right," he says, and offers Barcus the sack he's carrying, "You don't look like you have any supplies, and there's no camps near enough here that we know of. You're not from Wycome, we'd know, so— here. Never let it be said that Clan Lavellan has forgotten hospitality."
The sack is actually a square of cloth, green-dyed and hand-woven with a finely-stitched whorling pattern around its border, as if the thread had been tied in an endless series of complex knots. Inside is a bottle of dark and fragrant drink, a vellum-wrapped packet of smoked venison, and three nut-studded flatbreads, still warm. Enough for a meal or two, if you stretched it all, or to fill the hungry belly of an inopportune traveler.
"Can you tell me, what's come of my sister?" He says then, not waiting for him to actually tuck in, "If she's well?"
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That's terrible. And not a little terrifying, come to mention it. Though, true, he doesn't know exactly what a Tiefling is, in turn, but it's clear enough that whatever it is, this ruddy-faced gentleman is one. Ergo, that's what a tiefling is. As well as a Hellrider, or whatever else he'd like to call himself.
Such as, for example, Zevlor. Not even Mahariel's first Zev, and he decides to count it as a good omen. Few enough of those to not be miserly about them, after all.
"A Grey Warden uh... we're a kind of knightly order?" He ends the sentence on a grimace to go with the uncertain tone, "Only not so much with the actual knights. The Wardens will accept anyone who wants to join— or try to Join, anyways. We fight Darkspawn, and end Blights, and only a Warden can kill an Archdemon, which I incidentally have done, so... That's was a Warden is. I'm assuming a Tiefling is what you are, then?"
And then, a bit belatedly, he adds:
"...I'm an elf!"
Just in case you didn't know.
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On the other hand, the longer he waits, the more he doubts he's going to be hurt, but the more, also, he doubts Sorrel will return to clarify things to him, and if he doesn't, that's going to leave him quite lost. Suffice to say, the gnome has mentally died a thousand deaths by the time the elf returns, turning over all sorts of thoughts. How did he get here? How to get back? What to do if he can't return? He is not just a stranger to this world, but also a race that's going to be unfamiliar to everyone. They're going to think he's some sort of little imp-thing, probably, and put him in a zoo.
He starts slightly when Sorrel emerges from the bush, but looks deeply relieved. Congratulations, saer, you're the only thing he has in this world to navigate by. He's utterly surprised by the gift, let alone the implication that it's been offered not just by Sorrel but as a truce by the rest of the Clan. Maybe a 'here, we won't kill you but go fuck off' gift. That's downright friendly by his standards. He smiles, accepting the sack gratefully. "Thank you. I genuinely don't know enough about the woods here to navigate out and back, so your secret is safe regardless, but I promise my complete discretion anyway. Sworn by the Stones."
The bread is still warm, and Barcus marvels at that for a moment. He's not that hungry, but he'll break a piece of it off to nibble, partly to show trust and partly because bread fresh from the oven shouldn't be wasted.
"She's well," he says at once, before taking a bite. "She is..."
Well, here's where he has to mention certain individuals, or start being openly evasive. At least he knows better than to refer to him as Fen'Harel. "She has a home in Caldera, with Solas...? And another friend. I don't know if you know...um." Actually, let him just stop here and see how he reacts first.
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He trails off, the flickering flames in his eyes dulling for a moment. "We were betrayed. I will continue to do my duty, of course, no matter what, but I hope that you are oathbound to something more worthy of you."
"I must have taken out a dozen Orthons in the last forty-eight hours, but I fear an Archdemon is well beyond my capabilities. We may or may not be talking about the same thing, though. I do not think the Archdevils or Archdemons I'm aware of can die. Just get shunted to lesser circles of the Hells, perhaps." Still, if they are talking about beings of similar capabilities, he could be looking at the greatest potential ally he's ever seen in his life, and that doesn't escape him.
He nods, looking him over curiously. "I've had many elves among my comrades, so at least we have that knowledge in common. Tieflings are born of ordinary folk--usually humans, but sometimes also elves, dwarves, and other races. An ordinary couple will birth a creature like myself. Sometimes they have made a bargain or dabbled in magic, but other times there is nothing upon which to immediately blame the emergence of a tiefling."
"Over time, tieflings have found one another and joined together in families. Two tieflings may have a child that appears human, but it's far more common for us to produce more of ourselves. There is, alas, a devil's influence in our blood, though none of us asked for it. Asmodeus sought to use us as a tool to conquer the Material Plane, a long while ago. That he has thus far failed, and that most of us would rather see him or ourselves annihilated than serve his will, makes little difference to the people around us."
"So it does sting a bit to be reminded I'm an abomination, but I cannot blame you for the assumption." He shrugs. "It is what it is. I am, distantly, devil-spawn. But my heart is the same as yours."
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"See, that's the thing about Archdemons. If just any fool comes and puts a few feet of steel through their brains, the don't die. You have it exactly right, it's just off to the next place," This pointed out with the hand holding the stick, "But that's the point of we Wardens; rhey only die when one of us does it. There's a trick to it, obviously, and it usually does kill the Warden too, in the process... but hey, who's counting?"
Not many. Not even him, truth be told; Theron had not known if their little gambit would work, until it had. Wardens were meant to die heroically, after all, and he'd borrowed more than his fair share of time already.
"...Demons can reproduce. I really hate that news," He informs Zevlor, with cheerful candor, "But I suppose if the result is just people, that's different. Still.
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"Solas!?" He cries, deep in his exasperation, "That fucking ponce, she's back with him? After everything he's— He is literally Fen'Harel!"
Which might mean anything.
"Creators beyond the veil, what is wrong with her? She is so much smarter than this. I thought she was—" Sorrel starts, seeming to recognize, or remember, the inappropriate audience he seems to find himself with, "...Sorry, it's just so damned frustrating. I could shake her."
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...He can't help himself. "Ah," he says mildly, deadpan. "So you do know him, then."
Look, he's reasonably sure Solas would think it was funny, too.
He gives a little shake of his head a moment later, adding: "You're not giving her enough credit. She knows exactly what she's doing, even if her reasoning doesn't add up to you. Trust her. She's giving up a lot for him, but not without getting just as much in return."
"Anyway, they're both very dear to me. Both her and Solas." So, you know, maybe don't put your foot in your mouth, saer. Although it's not as if Barcus is in a position to fight for anyone's honor, even if he wished to. "I do understand he might not be your first choice as an in-law; he's certainly...complicated. But whatever other history they may have, he is devoted to her now."
"And neither of them asked to be brought to Caldera, so there's that."
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It isn't just that the formula in the serum used to create him was subtly different, or that one of the things it heightened was his pre-existing strong sense of justice, or even the time he served after the serum, operating on his own and outside their (or anyone else's) control. It isn't even wholly the relatively short amount of time they've had with him, since excavating him out of a block of ice.
It's all of them, and the upshot of all of them is that they can't quite completely overwrite his sense of identity, or entirely erase his memories. That doesn't mean he's himself - he's not, but he's not the point and shoot weapon they'd like him to be.
He is disoriented a lot of the time. He is more disoriented when he gets woken up, pulled out and taken to (and into) a 'holding' cell in one of their facilities to watch (guard?)--
a really short guy, who is definitely not human.
What the hell has HYDRA done now?
Steve stares for a second, expression pointedly blank, and slowly tilts his head over to one side. He says nothing until the agent who brought him down leaves. Even then it's still pretty blank and exactly one word.
"...Hi?"
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That's the part that unnerves him. No one's put a pick in his hands and pushed him into a mineshaft. No one's strung him to a windmill. If this is meant to be torture, they're not very good at it.
No, he's pretty sure this is study. Experimentation. He doesn't like being the subject thereof.
The person brought to his cell--he too assumes this is a new guard--is clearly human. A knight or fighter of some sort. He doesn't seem like he's all there, though. The way he tilts his head reminds the gnome uncomfortably of thralls of the Absolute. Mindflayers-in-waiting, with something of themselves still in there, fighting for its life.
He says nothing until the other guard leaves, either, mostly because he's been pretending not to speak their language. The accent is weird, but it's quite close to common. He can fake it. He refuses to try for them.
A simple hello, though? He would assume this is some sort of emotional manipulation tactic, sending him a potential friend to get him to crack, except they haven't been trying to crack him in the first place. He just looks up at the soldier for a long moment, stone-faced, but after a glance around and a reluctant grumble he decides he can only play dumb for a finite amount of time anyway.
"Hello. I don't suppose there's any chance of getting something to read in here, is there? Only if something horrible is going to happen to me, I'm already getting bored waiting for it."
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Maybe it's both. Are they smart enough for that? Leverage over Steve, and the other guy lowering his guard enough for information?
"Maybe." He feels like he's got something of himself in him fighting for its life, especially in the sense that he actually has been here long enough to be afraid of them, even if he hasn't been 'broken' to their satisfaction.
He has absolutely no idea what's going on, or what the plan is. "Unless they're trying boredom as torture, they might actually hand over a book. How long have you been here?"
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Without his workbench and several days to prepare, Barcus is no physical threat to a baseline human, let alone a super-soldier, so they needn't worry on that count. He's not without his own bent of resourcefulness, though, and he's taking in every detail on this man--clothing, vocal quality, body language--analyzing him like his life depends on it.
Maybe, he says and unless they're trying. That 'they' is the most interesting part. He's not one of them, then, or not in their good graces. Not in charge, for sure. The little man rubs the back of his neck, sighs, and makes a point of standing down, turning and taking a slow walk to the cot they've left him, and sitting cross-legged on the edge.
"A few days, I believe. Not long, but the accommodations could be more welcoming. And you? I rather thought you were brought in to intimidate me at first, but you're starting off slow if that's the case. What's your name?"
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In spite of the fairly... remote facial expression, severe black-on-black military outfit, and ramrod straight posture...
He isn't that careful about what he says and won't be. For one thing, these are basic questions that don't worry him. For another, HYDRA hasn't gotten anywhere near managing to make Steve actively dishonest. He wasn't great at subterfuge before HYDRA, and he's not good for that now.
"I have no idea how long I've been here. My name's Steve. What's yours?" Vocal quality? ...Conversational but faintly amused. Not mocking or mean just aware 'I don't know' is stupid, and having a normal conversation with whoever (and whatever) this guy is, is bizarre. For Steve, anyway.
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Meanwhile, 'I don't know' is a striking answer. It could be evasive, but in that tone of voice it comes across as honest. Another captive, then, the gnome decides, though perhaps not fully trustworthy because they've compromised him somehow.
"Steve," he echoes, in a tone of voice that clearly expresses what the hell kind of name is Steve?. Humans have odd naming conventions. "Hm. Well. My name is Barcus. Barcus Wroot. Presumably, we won't have heard of one another."
He rolls his shoulders a little, consciously trying to release the tension he's been holding since he landed here. Save some of that for later. "I hope Thulla remembers to feed my cats. They're resourceful enough to find their own prey if they must, but Mishka will absolutely ruin the carpet if he eats a slug."
Not just a normal conversation, aggressively normal, like the little man is determined to bring this under control by acting like it's no big deal.
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He does not take his eyes off Barcus, though. "We won't have. I don't even know what you are." Which is insulting probably - the answer is 'a person' - but his social graces are more than a little rusty.
He really wants to know where the hell Hydra found him. Wherever and however he's here is probably bad news for everyone, though at least probably not Steve's immediate issue.
"How are your cats getting in and out of the house to hunt, and then ruin your carpet?" Barely there pause - "And who's Thulla?"
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Like the automatons he was working on dismantling. Which he will not be mentioning any time soon.
"Alas, I'm a mere mechanic, so they'll have to get used to disappointment."
In contrast to his reaction to the question about what he is, he seems incredulous about this latter one: "Oh don't tell me you lot haven't heard of such a thing as a cat flap! You seem to be reasonably technically advanced, I'm sure one of you could invent it, given proper tools."
"... although, I'm not overly impressed by your approach. Plenty of military discipline, no intellectual discipline." He waves a hand apologetically. "Not you personally. The whole cabal or whatever this is."
"I assume they're working out how to use me for parts." And this man is the muscle, whether he likes it or not. "But cults tend not to breed innovation. Sooner or later they'll trip over their own stupid hive-mind."
He hesitates a moment, then answers, "A friend of mine. Thulla is, I mean. My second chief, of my laborer's guild."
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He's not necessarily correct. He is relieved that he's able to find some sense in what has, until this second, been completely confounding him.
Not that he knows how they'd have gotten to anywhere known as the Underdark or a gnome. He's not exactly well informed about the outside world, though, and 'internet' would currently confound him nearly as much. It at least keeps him credulous.
"I don't know that there are no cat flaps." His tone is dry. "Count yourself lucky I know what a cat is." Also dry. "Or maybe I'm who should consider myself lucky." This conversation is going toward something dangerous with outward criticism of Hydra, and he just ... can't.
"Explain what you mean by intellectual discipline?" That's a...safer direction. He hopes.
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"Mm, well, it's a little swinging door sized for a cat to come and go from the house," Barcus explains with a dismissive wave. "Every now and again an opossum creeps in, as well, unfortunately."
If it seems like he's not reacting to Steve's comment about being lucky, that's good, because he's trying not to. He adds mind altered, memory erasure? to his mental list of what's going on with this strange man.
"Intellectual discipline is focused inward," he explains grimly. "It's clear they have a strong hierarchy here, and a sense of purpose, but no one's holding themselves accountable for what they discover. Innovation must be handled with patience and care, even if you're planning on using it for evil purposes, else it will get away from you. They're lucky I'm the only thing that's come through the gateway they opened to my world, so far."
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He also isn't at all sure whether he's being told the truth or this is information for their likely invisible audience to try to convince them to close the damn gate. Except... why would he want that? He can't go home if that happens.
"Were you conscious when you came through?" That's... fairly safe. He thinks. Nothing like trying to find a way to stop the entire ass world he has no connection to at all anymore from going down, when also relatively helpless and effectively brainwashed and mind wiped. "Or brought to this cell?"
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It's fine. He hasn't let anything slip yet. Nor has he lied.
"I was...in and out of consciousness, I think," he says with a frown. "One moment I was in my workshop, and then I was so dizzy and nauseous I couldn't see or think, and then I was in a repulsive-smelling room with a bunch of hulking great humans surrounding me."
There's a momentary pause, and then he adds: "I've been playing dumb up until now. You can tell them I'm a gnome, if you like. I don't think it will matter to them."
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Does he count as being 'in captivity'? Sure. It's a strange thought.
He really wishes he were dumber sometimes. He would much prefer not seeing the potential, massive, dangerous problems in what else might come through that door. It would save him all sorts of (literal) headaches.
"I assume you'd like to go home?"
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In fairness, this is him putting on a front, on some level. Already, he feels considerable, if wary, compassion for this strange human. There's nothing for either of them to gain by acting like it, though. If Steve has an iota of intelligence--and the gnome is pretty sure he does--he'll understand. "They overestimate my charisma, I fear, if that's the case. They should have brought you a pretty elf, or maybe a halfling. Everyone likes halflings, they can't help it. Hells, I like halflings."
"No one cares what happens to gnomes. Especially deep gnomes."
"I would like to go home," he nods agreeably. "However, not at the expense of your entire civilization and/or universe. We have our problems under control in Faerun at the moment, but I hate to see what a handful of mindflayers would do to a realm that's not prepared for them."
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He shakes his head then. "Demons and devils are different entities, to my knowledge. One is Abyssal and of chaos, the other is Infernal and follows its own wicked laws. They are at constant war with one another, lucky for the rest of us, because either side turning its attention toward mortals could be disastrous."
"I have heard both devilish and demonic influence can appear in an innocent bloodline, but demons are far rarer. Perhaps their attention span is lacking."
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Because nobody is going to talk to you, Zevlor. Because of how you look, and how people are... and because the secret really is just that terrible, when you get down to it. It does sound like something a demon would say.
"I've heard people call everything that isn't human some variation on all that. But I'm no scholar— as you can see. What isn't trying to kill or chain me, I can let live. Otherwise..." Theron shrugs, easy nonchalance, "I kill it instead. No matter how big or powerful. It's a policy that's worked well, so far."
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Also, truthfully, Steve's pretty sure this one is more about them gaining leverage over him than the other way around.
"All right." Good info. Means if he can get a chance and enough info, maybe he can shut this thing down. Pay for it, but at least that's not the entire universe or planet paying for it. Mindflayer seems like something would think they'd be able to use, but almost certainly couldn't control. The situation for everyone else doesn't improve if they can. "Maybe they'll be smarter about it than usual."