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.