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]

"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.