Locking horns (for Rolan)

[hellrider]

Of all the battles he's ever faced, from undead to devils, none has ever unmanned Zevlor to the same extent as standing in the square across from Sorcerous Sundries.

He's arrived in Baldur's Gate late, he knows. After the remnants of the tiefling refugees he was meant to lead, and alone. That he made it by himself is impressive. That he managed it while nightly questioning whether or not he really wanted to wake at all in the morning is a testament to...something. Duty. Bloody-mindedness. Some fragment of the paladin left clinging to his soul. There is no way back; he has no right to ask forgiveness of the people he failed, but that doesn't absolve him of his fealty to them.

He cannot approach them himself, and whether that's practicality, knowing they wouldn't accept him, or whether it's cowardice, he can't say, but what he has done, is tracked them through the city like a ghost, leaving food and coin for them to find here and there, intervening from the shadows when it looked like someone might do them harm. Stupid, really. Neither Gortash nor the Absolute will be defeated by sweets and copper coins. Perhaps all Zevlor is doing is idle fancy, assuaging his own conscience in the laziest way possible.

But it's not as if he can take on the Absolute, himself. It's had a piece of him already.

No. But if he's to do anything more for his people than skulk--and it damn well seems like someone has to--he's going to have to talk to one, face to face. Rolan is his choice for more reasons than one. A gifted wizard in his own right, he certainly never acted as though he needed Zevlor's leadership before, and the old Hellrider has heard enough about their journey without him to be impressed. If nothing else, he owes Rolan thanks, and an apology.

It's just that the last thing he wants is to face him.

It's more than an hour that he lingers, legs feeling like lead, trying to force himself to move toward the door of the shop. Bless and curse the bastard, if it wasn't for Aradin's sudden, noisy appearance in the doorway, Zevlor might have turned to stone and stayed forever. As it is, his argument with the animated armor prompts just enough amusement, and deja vu, to get him moving, letting his steps carry him past the human as quietly as they can. And thanks to the ragged hood and cloak covering his head and his armor, he goes unnoticed.

Rolan, however, is going to notice him fairly quickly. He approaches the counter with barely a glance as the magical summons wandering the room, and if his face is shadowed within fabric, it's still pretty damn distinctive.

Comments

[hellishretort]

Rolan had spent a great deal of time after receiving his acceptance letter to study under Lorroakan imagining what his apprenticeship would be like, how his natural talent despite being completely self-taught would blossom if given the proper mentor and tools to hone his humble craft. Surely after a life of hardship and determination, he was owed that boon. Eventually he had to wade through the worst of it and come out a better wizard, right?

He'd been loathe to stay in the Grove with the other refugees, wanting to just take Cal and Lia and be on his way, but damn him for being talked into it. If only he'd gone with his gut and not let himself be swayed, perhaps things would have been different. The shadow-cursed lands leading to Baldur's Gate had been insurmountably worse in comparison. Rolan had failed his siblings when it had mattered most, choosing to defend the scared group of children instead of helping his kin who were carted off to be tortured and killed. He hadn't signed up to be a hero, dammit! How could he not when the one who'd meant to save them failed? In the end, it hadn't mattered, he still failed. He'd been content to drown himself in drink in the aftermath of his failure until that insufferable man with a hero complex had come to claim he was on the way to Moonrise and he'd save Rolan's siblings. That, he couldn't abide. And of course the hero saved his arse again and Rolan could only feel mortified at his inability to do the one thing he'd promised. What an older brother he turned out to be.

Somehow they made it and he'd started his apprenticeship. Only it wasn't at all what he'd imagined. His days were spent mostly behind the front counter of Sorcerous Sundries being little more than a glorified teller. He very rarely saw Cal or Lia, staying in a small room above the shop. When he wasn't working, he was attempting to study under Lorroakan, but the wizard was difficult to please and his anger was as explosive as his obsession with a relic called the Nightsong.

Rolan is more disappointed in his apparent inability to please his mentor or pass what feel to be obvious tests.

He's been fielding more and more "adventurers" claiming to have information about the bloody Nightsong, which is growing so tiresome. His face hurts, but he keeps that blasted smile plastered on his face despite how he'd very much like to crawl into bed and practice his modified Frostbite cantrip. Another walks in and his response is immediate, practiced.

"Welcome to Sorcerous Sundries, how-- Hells below, what are you doing here?" The words are hissed and his eyes narrow the moment he recognizes Zevlor. His palms may be a bloody mess from how tightly his fists are clenched.

[hellrider]

As far as Zevlor is concerned, there may as well be no one else in the room, adventurer or otherwise. His tunnel vision could cause trouble, should someone else seek to check out with their purchases, but the coast is clear for the moment, luckily. He manages, just barely, not to shrink beneath the hood at Rolan's hissed question. Instead, he deliberately straightens his spine and tilts his chin up to let the light fall on his face. Then, as an afterthought, he places both hands on the counter, to show they're bare and weapon-free. Not that Rolan has any real reason to worry about any customer lashing out, but...well. This is almost like a parley, at least in Zevlor's head.

"I owe you." He answers simply. It's true--any lives that were saved after Zevlor's failure can be ascribed to Rolan, Cerys, and the timely intervention of the Harpers--but also, it's the best opening he can think of. "I made a promise which I failed to keep, and you did what I could not. I at least wanted you to know I'm grateful, and aware of my debt."

"I'm catching wind of some political undercurrents," he adds, trying to get out everything he has to say before the other tiefling blows up and/or has a set of animated armor fling him into the street, but a second look at Rolan's face makes him trail off.

Yes, the journey to the Gate was beyond rough. It might make sense for him to be a little battered in transit, but surely a wizard in the employ of a wizard can scrape up a healing potion. That, and Zevlor is excruciatingly familiar with battlefield triage. He knows new wounds when he sees them. These bruises are a day old or less.

"...Rolan, who did this?"

[hellishretort]

It wasn't the sudden appearance of a paladin that had him up in metaphorical arms, but this specific paladin who, for lack of a better explanation, abandoned them when he was well and truly needed. He's ready to tell the older tiefling off, how he's not welcome now that the storm has been weathered, but those three words startle him into silence. Gratitude isn't what he expects- an excuse, perhaps. Rolan raises his chin imperiously, his tense shoulders straightening. Yes, he had done what Zevlor couldn't do in their weakest moment and it should be noted.

"If I hadn't stepped in, they would have died. Cal and Lia could have died no thanks to you." Countless others had lost their lives including Arabella's parents within that cursed land. It could have been so much worse. He can admit to being proud, but it's not from anywhere but the knowledge that he had earned every bit of power that came to his fingers. As meager a thing as it's turning out to be. What good is a wizard who can't prove his mettle?

Yellow eyes glance quickly around to make sure he's not being watched, but it's such a precarious thing in the tower of another wizard- nothing goes unnoticed. He offers that same tight smile, his tail flicking in agitation.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about. I can assist with spell scrolls or potions. If you want books, talk to Tolga."

[hellrider]

What's the point of an apology? It won't bring back the dead. Trying to explain himself would be worse. He betrayed them, all of them, grasping at temptation for just a few moments, but those few moments were enough to damn him and dozens of others. Rolan owes him nothing, and Zevlor was half-braced for the other tiefling to spit in his face.

What he says to him is no more or less than the truth, and for some reason that's reassuring. In another time and place, he might have been pleased to see Rolan's honest pride. Might have told him how much he reminds Zevlor of himself, when he was a new Hellrider, determined to prove his worth and spite the world. No one would benefit from that comparison right now. "I know. I went back and made sure the bodies of the others were properly buried."

The Shadowlands are healed now. Flowers will cover the cairn. It's inadequate, but it's something. Better than imagining their brethren with their bones picked clean by shadow-ravens.

But back to the matter at hand. The way Rolan looks around the room sends a frisson of anger up the back of Zevlor's neck, because it tells him everything: Whoever hurt him is watching. Whether Rolan is being prideful or whether he's afraid of reprisal, he can't know for sure, but he guesses it's both.

"You sell healing potions here, don't you?" His tone is light now, deceptively casual.

Of course they do. And Rolan hasn't been given access to them, despite being in the public eye. He's on display.

[hellishretort]

There are several things he'd very much like to do, but being so on display is enough of a deterrent for him to at least appear civil. Not that he's keen to fall into the 'hellspawn are violent urchins' stereotype that is readily abundant in the city. Instead, he bites his tongue and stays on his side of the counter. Rolan has to at least be grateful they were given a burial, not that it changed the fact that many of them had been tortured before they met their end.

He'd rather focus on that than how Zevlor is looking at him, making assumptions about the prominent bruising and scrapes across his face. It galls. This is nothing. This is simply a hardship he has to deal with because it will eventually end, but either way, he's fully capable of handling it.

"Healing, Sleep, or Animal Speaking?" His eyes narrow slightly, assuming what the old paladin is up to. He puts his hands on the counter, leaning forward slightly, his words hissed. "I know what you're trying, don't bother. I've got it under control."

He certainly doesn't need someone else's interfering again, he'll figure something out. So long as Lorroakan sticks to the abuse himself, Rolan knows how to take a punch or a kick. Which will get worse if the wizard notices his work is being undone. Egotistical prick.

[hellrider]

"Healing. A minor one should do." Zevlor's deadpan stare doesn't waver, but after Rolan leans forward, so does he, resting one elbow on the counter. "Whatever do you mean? I'm merely trying to get information about your stock. I assure you, I have the coin."

Listen, even if he were still bound by his Oath, the Creed Resolute never forbade the Hellriders from lying. "It's a fascinating place, this store. Tell me, all these constructs, these elementals...summoned by master Lorroakan himself? The armor too, animated by his hand?"

If so, the man has power to burn; small wonder Rolan hoped to learn from him. Unfortunately, Zevlor's urge to seek him out and do him bodily harm will have to go unfulfilled. Even at his full strength, with the divine gifts of a paladin, it would be a tall order to face a wizard like that alone. Besides, Rolan's not entirely wrong. It's presumptuous of him to walk in here and act like he has a right to offer the other tiefling any kind of protection or service.

"You're fortunate to have the work. You, Dammon, Lakrissa...you have a right to be in the city, unlike the rest of the dregs camped in Rivington. Your employers grant you that." His gaze is unblinking. "For as long as you serve their interests."

"Meanwhile, those of us who haven't been put to use are cluttering the streets. You should hear how the righteous citizens of Baldur's Gate talk about us. It's like Elturel all over again, except the resentment isn't merely for tieflings; it's for everyone without a home and a master." His lips curl into a pained smile.

"Funny how history repeats itself, isn't it? None of this is under control. Not yours, and not mine."

[hellishretort]

"Potions of Healing are ten gold." A roll of his eyes accompanies a defeated sigh. "Yes, of course you are."

His shoulders straighten, his following words a practiced script. "Master Lorroakan is the most talented wizard in Baldur's Gate, it's only natural he would possess the ability to keep a handful of constructs going without more than a thought. The armor, the projections, the portals- all Master Lorroakan's doing."

The part Rolan is still trying to piece together is why him? Yes, he'd saved the children, but he's also not one of the refugees hanging around Rivington. He's got a job- or what can at least be perceived as one despite having yet to learn anything from Lorroakan himself. Oh, he's fortunate enough to be here in the first place, he knows that. It's a miracle the wizard even wrote back to him and gave him the time of day. "Then why don't you go help them and stop fishing for information you clearly already know?"

He knows how fucked up their situation is in the city, but is it truly so much to ask to move on from their previous misery? Rolan's jaw snaps closed as he looks away from Zevlor, not wanting to look at him and know he's right. He'd rather push through and hope something has to come of the situation he's found himself in. It has to work out so he can provide for his siblings- they all deserve that much after so long struggling. "You don't think I know how we're perceived? How all we amount to is our heritage?"

Not once has Lorroakan addressed him by name. To him, Rolan is 'tiefling' or perhaps more insulting, 'boy'. Where there are tieflings, surely devils are not far behind in the small minds of the mostly-human city. "I don't know what you expect me to do about it!" His tone is waspish, exasperated at the reminder that no, things aren't actually better now that they've reached Baldur's Gate.

[hellrider]

"A little steeper than some, but given they're made by such a master craftsman, I suppose that's reasonable." Straightening slightly, Zevlor makes a show of fishing for his purse. He merely nods along with the spiel Rolan gives him, accepting the information without further questioning, though he has to wonder, exactly how many summons can one wizard handle? Power is all well and good, but surely there is some limit to concentration.

He doesn't have that answer. Rolan might, though. "Fascinating. I'm sure you'll be interested to learn how he manages so many at once."

"I'm a traitor. They won't see me." He answers the question without hesitation or self pity, though there's something dark in his eyes. "You're not leaving this counter while Lorroakan insists you remain, so you're a captive audience. Congratulations."

"You might want to consider the ramifications of that. The power he holds over you even now. You'd do anything to protect your siblings, keep them safe in the Gate." Master Lorroakan has hostages, if he wants them, but with luck, perhaps he's too arrogant to realize he needs them yet.

He finally withdraws a handful of coins, and with them a rolled slip of paper, seeking to drop the lot into Rolan's hand. "Two, please."

If he accepts the paper as well as the coins, Rolan will see an address scribbled across it. A location close to the docks, if he knows the area.

"I wouldn't worry about our heritage here. It won't matter for long. All are one under the Absolute." At this he casts his gaze down; the words taste foul on his tongue.

"Frankly, I don't know what I expect, either. Only what I fear. You, at least, are a wizard in a tower. It's a good vantage from which to keep watch."

[hellishretort]

"Once the Nightsong is found, he will have more time to devote toward teaching instead of having to give every adventurer with a pamphlet the time of day." Ignoring the fact that the portals at the top of the staircase weed out the ones grasping at straws. Rolan will be glad when Master Lorroakan has the relic, too, so he can stop bloody hearing about it. As for the situation at hand, he clenches his jaw, trying to reign in the temper he can feel boiling to the surface.

"They've reason not to, don't they?" Rolan doesn't need to elaborate, they're both aware of the carnage. Captive audience he may be, he's not above an uncharitable jab though it doesn't feel as good as he'd have liked. The mention of his siblings being used against him was a fear he'd not considered and the thought is enough to distract from his anger. His brow furrows in worry momentarily before he remembers where he's at and collects his expression to something more 'agreeable'.

The coin feels heavy in his hand, but it's the little roll of paper that is the searing weight. He's not fool enough to open it in the shop, but he discretely tucks it into the bracer at his wrist for later. Reaching under the counter, he retrieves two of the standard Potions of Healing, sliding them across to Zevlor.

"A wizard in a tower with a view of the street isn't much of a wizard at all." Most of the time, he can't see much of the square past the performers showboating in front of the fountain. They certainly draw a crowd, but he can't truly say he's noticed much outside of his own little world. Pathetic as that may be after clawing his way to get here. It's not as if he wants to be worked to the bone and spending what's left of his waking hours consuming whatever texts he can get his hands on if he's not at the mercy of Lorroakan's whims.

[hellrider]

The Nightsong. Zevlor makes a grumbling noise in his throat. Whatever it is, if Aradin and his lot were chasing it, and Lorroakan wants it, he has to assume it's nothing either of them should have their hands on. "Well, if he can't get anyone better than that waste of skin outside to find it, he's going to have to do without for a good long while," he mutters, aware he's editorializing for no good reason.

Neither Aradin nor the Nightsong are his business, as far as he knows. But maybe they should be.

The jab hurts, and his breath catches a little in spite of himself. He refuses to rise to the bait, though. Objectively, it's true. If he could be sure it was a problem that would never arise again, that the Absolute would never break into his mind and tempt him a second time, he might try to explain. But he can't make promises, and he won't try. There's a flicker of pain in his eyes, but it's soothed over by the look on Rolan's face. Despite his stubborn independence and his streak of verbal cruelty, the other tiefling has heard Zevlor's argument, and that is a huge relief. Even more so is the fact that he accepts the paper rather than throwing it back in Zevlor's face.

If Lorroakan is already hitting him, unchallenged, after so short a time, it won't be long before he escalates to something even nastier.

He accepts the potions and tucks them away. Rolan is either not permitted to heal himself or doesn't care to use company stock to do so; giving him one would be an insult and a waste. There are enough sickly people in the streets who can benefit without fear of retaliation.

He huffs under his breath, a soft, scornful noise. "I don't know why you'd sell yourself short now, after all the work it took you to get here. I'm no wizard, obviously, but I've known a few. Any fool can see you have talent. Don't let the tedium discourage you."

'Tedium' is not what either of them are concerned about, granted. "You never wanted my guidance in the first place, though. Don't take anyone else's, either. Trust yourself and your family."

His excuses to remain, to talk, are running thin, and sooner or later one wizard or another is going to toss him out on his tail. He turns to go, pauses, then says, "I hope to see you again, Rolan. Be well."

He can't make him come to him, can't make him talk freely or trust Zevlor, but at least he dares to hope he's leaving an open door behind him.

[hellishretort]

Rolan is reluctant to see the writing on the wall; the violence will escalate despite his eagerness to please his mentor. He wants to believe that eventually, Lorroakan will run out of excuses or reasons why he isn't worthy of his teaching. The wizard releases a breath when the potions are tucked away instead of offered, glad his demeanor gives off the impression they'd be refused. They would, but it's complicated.

He knows he's talented, he'd have to be to have even been considered for an apprenticeship that so many others undoubtedly sought. It's not the tedium that keeps him under thumb, it's the thought that if he fails, there's nothing more he can do for his siblings. He has to provide for them because if he can't? The thought doesn't bear thinking about. He'll give up and do anything to see them taken care of. So what if he feels trapped in the situation? Like Zevlor said, all are one under the Absolute, and that thought is terrifying enough on its own. Would the wizard of Ramazith's tower lift a finger to aid the city?

His mind spins in the wake of Zevlor's retreat, mulling over their conversation and the inevitable future that's waiting for them should the Cult of the Absolute not be stopped. He's distracted enough that it's noticed, much to his chagrin. Lorroakan is displeased with his performance and frustrated at another dead end in the hunt for the Nightsong which doesn't bode well for his evening. Rolan's mind wanders to the slip of paper and the location written on it that he will talk himself out of visiting multiple times.

Once again, Zevlor is correct- he's never wanted the other tiefling's guidance nor anyone else's, though a small part of him longs for someone to vent his frustrations to who might understand. He's shouldered far more difficult tasks, so that's what he does. Selfishly, he hopes Lorroakan never gets his hands on the Nightsong, simply to see the petulant wizard continue to suffer for it.

The slip of paper stays tucked between the pages of his battered spellbook, a lifeline he refuses to take, its presence both patronizing and welcome all the same. Each day he resists the compulsion to simply raze the place to the ground in a fireball out of frustration, but the consequences far outweigh how good it would feel.

[hellrider]

Of all the people he never wanted to see again, Aradin is at the top of Zevlor's list. The sheer disgust he feels toward the irresponsible bastard is demotivating enough that it's a couple days before he can bring himself to track him down. When he does, though, he's easily able to ply him and his new compatriots with enough drink to loosen their tongues. Aradin never has thought much of Zevlor and never will, but that makes him careless.

By the time he leaves the man asleep in the booth at the tavern, Zevlor knows everything Aradin knew about the Nightsong, and he's come to a few conclusions the man himself never had the perspective to glean. In fact, he's relatively certain he knows what Lorroakan wants with this priceless treasure, and it seals his opinion of the mysterious wizard. The last thing the world needs now is a replacement for Ketheric Thorm.

Tracking down Tav's camp takes another half a day, but he's rewarded when he gets there by the sight of the Nightsong herself. Approaching her, he feels the pain of his own diminished Oath more sharply than ever, because here is someone of greater moral strength than he's ever known.

But that's not how she treats him. There is no coddling in her demeanor, but she speaks more like a teacher to an errant child than a spirit of divine vengeance, and at least some of the guilt that weighs him down is set aside for the moment, in light of the crystal-clear moral duty before him. Yes, he'd be happy to hurt Lorroakan just for what he's done to Rolan, but this is clearly bigger than tiefling interests, even bigger than Aylin's interests, because how long would it really take a sadistic wizard with ill-gotten immortality to turn his attentions toward gaining even greater power?

It's an undeniable gamble to venture forth with just the two of them, but Zevlor is loath to wait for Tav, and Aylin is even less inclined to seek assistance. He's careful to share all his observations with her, including the volume and variety of summons Lorroakan appears to have at his command. She seems unintimidated, and he's convinced she'd go and do this alone if he refused to join her.

So, it's only a few days after they last parted ways that Zevlor re-enters Sorcerous Sundries. Again, he's cloaked, and at his side...well, she was supposed to try to be discreet but evidently aasimar don't do discreet. It seems as though they don't like lines, either, because she's about to make a beeline for the staircase before Zevlor puts his hand on her arm halting her for a moment.

"Rolan," he greets wryly. "The Nightsong would like a word with Lorroakan."

If that sounds like asking permission, it sort of is, but only on Zevlor's part. Aylin's aura is all but crackling with righteous indignation.

"...you may wish to make yourself scarce, if you can," the tiefling says. "There's no way this ends quietly."

[hellishretort]

It's days before he sees Zevlor's cloaked form grace the entryway of Sorcerous Sundries. Of dealing with Lorroakan's impossible standards and temper regarding his failure to suss out the Nightsong. The abuse doesn't get better, but there is a distracted air about the 'discipline' his mentor doles out. As if he isn't the one being punished, but all the adventuring parties coming in that get it wrong.

A weight settles in the pit of his stomach when they lock eyes, though Rolan's attention is very quickly drawn to the woman walking in stride with the older tiefling until she breaks off and heads for the staircase. Her presence is as big as she is, her feathered wings billowing behind her and demanding the attention of everyone around without a word. He knows he's openly gaping and closes his jaw with a snap when he realizes.

His attention is brought back to Zevlor at the sound of his name. The wizard's brow furrows in confusion, glancing back to the aasimar quickly. "I-- The Nightsong is a person?"

The pieces of the puzzle slot together, but the weight in his stomach feels heavier at the realization. He's seen the warding circle Lorroakan has in the library and hadn't questioned its true purpose. That monster intended to imprison the Nightsong-- a person-- for his own personal gain? His hands clench into fists atop the counter and his blood boils. Shaking his head, he scowls at the easy-out Zevlor offers. Of simply walking away as if he had seen nothing.

"Zurgan. You can't expect me to just sit by when I could help!" How could he think of turning a blind eye to this? It's the final straw and he wants to be around to see that Lorroakan can't simply do what he pleases while making everyone around him suffer.

[hellrider]

"She has a...unique ability." Best if Zevlor doesn't go bellowing out that he's walked into a magic shop with a goddess-begotten immortal being here. Lorroakan is a dead man, as far as he's concerned, but there's no reason to go fighting an endless chain of ambitious wizards if they don't have to. "One that has been siphoned from her before."

Rolan is the one ambitious wizard he's inclined to trust, but he didn't expect him to volunteer to fight against his own master. The surprise shows in his face, but it only lingers for a moment. "You're quite sure? This is--"

"Your company will be most welcome, young wizard." Aylin says. Her voice is as impressive as the rest of her, and as attention-grabbing. "Zevlor speaks highly of you. But we must move quickly if we are to retain the element of surprise."

Zevlor opens his mouth, then closes it again as the aasimar resumes her purposeful stride toward the stairs. It's more than a little comical, how he has to jog to catch up with her. And now it occurs to him that she could have just flown to one of the upper windows, carrying him along if needed. Maybe she walked through the lobby on purpose, to give Rolan the chance to join them.

He's not in charge of this at all. How humbling!

[hellishretort]

He's ready to open his mouth and argue that Zevlor isn't in charge of him and he'll go if he damn well pleases when she speaks up, welcoming his aid. Rolan releases some of the tension in his shoulders, nodding resolutely.

"Good, now that's settled. Come, it's the portal to the left." He said this to regain some control of the situation, but she's gone ahead, striding with purpose up the stairs, and he has to hurry up the steps after them like some eager toddler. His righteous anger keeps him pushing forward, but the closer they get to the portal and the subsequent stepping through into the library, the more his anxiety shoots straight to his throat.

By the time he steps through, the Nighsong is already engaged in conversation with Lorroakan, who casts him an amused expression. His eyebrows arch with the expectation that Rolan will fall in line and help him subdue her. Instead, he scowls at his "mentor", his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, tail flicking with agitation.