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.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2024-08-28 02:47 pm (UTC)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.