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?"
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.
"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?"
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?"
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?"
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."
"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?"
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.
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."
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branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2025-12-13 02:39 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2025-12-13 06:28 am (UTC)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?"
no subject
Date: 2025-12-13 01:20 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2025-12-16 04:50 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2025-12-16 01:50 pm (UTC)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?"
no subject
Date: 2025-12-29 03:31 am (UTC)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?"
no subject
Date: 2025-12-31 11:45 pm (UTC)"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."
no subject
Date: 2026-01-03 05:55 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2026-01-11 05:26 pm (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2026-01-12 08:21 pm (UTC)"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.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-21 04:58 pm (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2026-02-21 05:08 pm (UTC)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."