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He could take the humiliation of failure but he wanted, so dearly, to give something to the adventuring party. To Yuta.
In the far reaches of the camp, the skeletal visage of Withers stood, away from the noise and bustling though the tiefling children did try to play around him. A slight gleam sparkled in his dead-black eyes.
The Paladin had a different god’s blessing this evening.
Zevlor half knelt, gesturing his arms as if cradling a ball. A faint, pale glow in his hands, then outwards and upwards he cast it, sparks filling the sky, white dots glimmering both so close and so far. Tieflings cheered in the back and foregrounds, clapping at the display. Cal and Lia gently jabbed Rolan with their elbows, who scoffed and crossed his arms.
Zevlor finally stood, turning to Yuta whose glacial gaze glued to the false stars in the nearly-night sky. Indigo hands curled together against his chest like a silent prayer.
"The skies are utterly black in the Hells. We filled them with stars to look forward to a brighter future. I... wanted to show you. A star for every life you’ve saved." He tried to sound hopeful, though mourned the lives lost long before the cleric had arrived.
Yuta looked to him with quiet reverence.
He could feel the stirrings of his vowed domain wrap around his heart, a quiet, thankful blessing to spare those who would have died outside their destined path. Every star for every life... A beautiful sentiment.
Gale sought Shadowheart for one of her finer stashed wines. She happily refilled his glass.
"He looks absolute smitten, doesn’t he?"
"Noticed that, too, did you?" She whispered with a cocked brow, gesturing her nose in Yuta and Zevlor’s direction. Astarion by his tent noticed her gesture, glancing over, hiding behind his own wine bottle – stolen, of course, from Shadowheart’s stash, though she pretended not to notice. It was a celebration, after all, one missing bottle won’t sour her mood.
"I think it’s rather sweet," Gale said. "A shame we’ll be treading separate paths."
"He’s like a lost puppy."
"Ah, the allure of the wise. Strong. Protective. Someone to take care of you when you need to be taken care of." Gale smiled sadly, drumming his fingers against his glass.
"Are you talking about a lover or a parent?" She scrutinized behind her cup.
"Aw, come now. A guiding lover is a favorite to many. Fantasy to some."
"Is it your fantasy, then?"
"Once upon a time, it was my reality. Until the lover became... Loveless. But that’s a tale for another day. Celebrations, and all."
Shadowheart hummed at him, but let him have his little secrets for now. She instead curiously eyed Yuta and Zevlor from afar before peering to the shore where Wyll had wandered to, spotting Lae’zel trotting toward him with a Gith’s tenacity.
Entirely unaware of their voyeurs, Yuta was almost breathless. "It’s beautiful." He said while gazing at Zevlor, who looked away, half embarrassed to be seen in such a fashion.
"Ahem. Yes. I’m.. glad you like it."
Yuta plucked a goblet, one of the many they’ve scoured from their adventures, filling it with wine.
He took a sip, making a small face.
"Not your kind of drink?" Zevlor asked.
"It’s... Different." Yuta wasn’t sure what to say – what sheltered life he lived in the stone walls of the tower, half-rotten fruit was an occasional sad treat. Properly fermented, the drink was certainly richer, fuller, but a familiar tang of mildew lingered on his tongue. He’d suffer it, for now.
"Well. Go on, have your fun. You don’t need an old goat like me for company."
Zevlor gestured to the crowd, drink in opposite hand. He was smiling, brightly and genuinely, though tinged with the faint vestiges of reluctance.
Yuta loved the creases around his mouth, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, telling of a life well lived with many smiles and occasional frowns.
"Goats make very good company, actually," he said coquettishly, smiling behind his cup.
Zevlor looked at him, a moments pause as if to assess the banter, the situation. "Is that so? Even the old, ornery ones?"
"Especially the ornery ones. When they’re not trying to butt me." Yuta couldn’t help his giggle. He tried to cover the flush of his cheeks behind a gulp of wine. Or maybe the flush was from the wine. "But you’re not ornery. You’re too nice to be ornery." Stop saying ornery.
Zevlor laughed earnestly. He found it... sweet. Cute even. He was flattered, internally, that he had caught the eye of such a handsome youth. But he told himself it was just a boyish crush.
Though Yuta was not a child, he quietly maintained an at-arm’s-length countenance, dutifully pushing aside wanting something more, deep down. He wasn’t a hero any longer fit to receive such pleasantries.
"You haven’t seen me when the children grab my tail and steal the pouch off my belt. Redder in the face than I already am." His hand circled near his face before returning to the body of his mug, held firmly in both hands. "Dealt with many old goats, then?"
"Mhm. I used to raise them."
"For sup or for work?"
Yuta blinked blankly. He looked past Zevlor. A goat bleating. Then silence. A flash of blood. An infernal sigil drawn across the stone.
There was no blood here.
"Ahem. Well. Work, I suppose. But I just raised them. That was... One of my jobs."
He looked away, speaking evasively into his cup.
Zevlor cocked his head curiously at the self-diffident boy.
"You’ve taken many responsibilities, then? I know the feeling," he said plainly, though his expression remained still as he studied Yuta’s face, body language. Yellow eyes flickered to the cleric’s tail. It never so much as swished away from his leg. Not ever.
"Hm... I suppose so, yes. I cooked, cleaned, raised animals... A-nd. Other things. Completely mundane." His voice raised, just slightly, at the end.
"Well," Zevlor patiently began. "I at least hope your mundane activities didn’t prove too taxing."
Yuta tucked dark hair behind his ear.
"They were, at times, but... I don’t have to do any of that, anymore."
"Oh? Not a fan of chores, are you?" the elder tiefling jokingly chided.
Yuta scoffed at him playfully, "I don’t mind them!" He corrected to Zevlor’s soft chuckling. "I would just prefer if they were my chores."
"Oh? You were a servant then?"
The crowd was bustling with song and dance around them, though Yuta only felt Zevlor’s gaze on him as the elder drank from his tankard.
He hadn’t realized Zevlor was collecting information until now. He did it so effortlessly. Or, perhaps Yuta was simply young and impressionable. Trusting. Something to take advantage of.
Yuta didn’t know how to feel about it. He wasn’t angry. Somewhat hurt the other didn’t seem to be interested the same way he was.
Zevlor was an expert of his craft. Strategic. Leading. A sharp eye for the slightest flinch. He gave a small, poignant smile as he realized he seemed to bruise the boy’s feelings, watching Yuta’s eyes drift down dolefully. Doe-fully.
"I didn’t mean," he tried, as Yuta spoke in unison with him:
"I wasn’t — oh."
"No, no. Go on." Both of his hands wrapped around the near-empty tankard, gently regretful of his scrutinizations.
"I, uhm." Yuta toed the tip of his hoof into the dirt. "I was and wasn’t a servant. I served. But I had no master or lord. I... Well. It doesn’t matter. I don’t live with them anymore."
"Your... Parents?" Zevlor quietly guessed, taking half a step closer.
Yuta nodded, not looking at him.
Zevlor suspected chores weren’t the issue. Still. He’s prodded the boy to soreness by now, certainly. He cleared his throat and hid behind a gulp from his mug. He shouldn’t have pried. He’s ruined it all, surely.
"You can go wherever you want to, now," he mended. "I know you have your own dealings to attend. But I hope we’ll see each other again. On the road to Baldur’s Gate. Or beyond the Gate."
Yuta smiled shyly. "I hope so."
Zevlor’s eyes widened as though he realized he forgot something.
"Ah! I’ve taken all your time and haven’t let you eat. Here. Just a moment."
He found his way to a cauldron over a firepit, scooping some of its contents into a bowl. Zevlor offered the stew with large chunks of meat and boiled potatoes, carrots, and other roots. Yuta took it into his chilled hand, sapping its warmth.  
"We had saved quite a lot of dried meat thanks to staying in the grove. Guex and Ikaron hunted fresh boar for us yesterday. It’s a celebration. Your, erm... Wizard friend. Gale, is it? Was particularly protective of his cooking pots. But he makes an incredible broth. Proteins would do you good. Er, do us good," he corrected quickly.
He glanced to Yuta’s horns.
Horns told much about a tiefling’s life. The gouges, scrapes, shininess, flakiness, grooves, rings, symmetry. They told battles and hardships, diet, health, growth, age all on display. Rude to stare, ruder to ask. He was glad to see fewer flakes than last time. Looking healthier. Shinier.
"Oh! I love a good red meat," Yuta said excitedly abandoning his goblet for the bowl.
Zevlor hid a laugh into a cough behind his hand. "Ah... Really?"
The other tore into a chunk of meat hungrily.
"Until our adventure, I didn’t have much opportunity for it. Oh, it’s delicious every time Gale cooks it. And when he lets Wyll cook. Usually we’re stuck peeling potatoes. Not that I’m complaining, though... I’m glad I don’t have to cook for others, anymore."
Yes he... He could believe that.
Zevlor gestured to a few unclaimed stones to sit. The skirt of Yuta’s vestments rose, just slightly, black hooves somewhat dirty but not out of the ordinary as he sat. Zevlor noticed they were overgrown. Uneven. Cracked.
Zevlor recalled the times he saw the boy trip over his own feet, assuming at first he was just a clumsy, green adventurer. That no longer seemed the case. He wasn’t well taken care of, was he?
Again, Zevlor did not want to pry. The insatiable need to be useful, to have a purpose, a duty to others – he couldn’t help but feel protective of the younger tiefling but tried not to coddle him.
"Some of you are rather young," he approached with caution. "The call of adventure does bring many. The Blade of Frontiers, even, began as a teenager if I recall. I became a Hellrider in just my second decade."
Yuta looked up from his bowl then back down into its fatty broth. "I suppose," he replied absently. "I turned thirty a few moons ago."
"Thirty?" Zevlor half exclaimed. "I apologize. You look younger. I must have been treating you like a child. I meant no offense." Now it was his turn to feel sheepish.
Yuta thankfully didn’t seem offended, smiling as he sipped broth.
"I guess I do... But didn’t you call yourself an old goat? How old are you? A hundred and thirty?" Yuta tried not to laugh as he shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth, picking an outrageous number as Zevlor gaped at the audacity.
"How dare you!" He accused light-heartedly. "I’m certainly old enough to be your father. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? Gods’ graces."
The way the younger tiefling looked at the ground when he was embarrassed, fidgeting fingers, made him smile.  
Bound for the road ahead, the tieflings gathered their things. The party would follow them, for the while, until their paths split near the Selûnite temple. There was more to explore, there, into the secret passages to the Underdark before they followed the Githyanki to the crèche in the mountains.
The occasional gnoll or small band of goblin escapees proved little pain to the party and the additional tieflings. Rolan managed to learn spells besides blue and purple, as his adoptive sibling teased. Zevlor, also, proved incredible in battle. Yuta hardly had the time to admire him, but there were a few glances he could spare, seeing the determination on his face as he swung his sword and threw a fireball from his palms, use his tail to sweep a gnoll off its hinds. The way his strength tremored in his shoulders and biceps.
Shadowheart and Yuta both helped tend to the wounded.
Umi was brave enough to tap a Goblin’s arse with the flat of a blade but got himself scratched. Mol congratulated him on his potential scar as he was teary-eyed through alcohol and bandages. Zevlor scolded him, gently, calling him courageous but telling him to be careful.
It was nice to occasionally see him out of armor, in night clothes no less. A modest silk tunic with red trim, pale trousers tucked into dark ankle boots. Various patches and practical stitchwork to repair small holes and snags here or there. Yuta wondered, across all the tieflings present, how many of their belongings burned in the Hells.
In the afternoon, they trekked onward, coming closer to the temple where they would soon have to split.
"Uhm... Zevlor..?" Yuta beckoned, glancing up at him shyly, fingers tangled.
"If you’re a Paladin... Do you serve a god?"
Zevlor looked down at him. "Not every Paladin is clerical," he explained. Then, he smiled sadly. Almost bitterly. "But I’m afraid no god will have me, now that my oath has been broken."
"Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t..."
Zevlor shook his head. "There is nothing to be sorry about. My mistakes are my own. My... burdens my own. I once served Helm, if it matters. Ah... To have Helm stand behind me as I slew cambions and merregons. My weapons and armors blessed, calling forth Helm’s guiding gauntlet to my fellow Riders and those who were brought into Avernus with the rest of Elturel. They weren’t a Paladinic order, but to have those of us call our Gods, even in Hell. Oh, what a blessing. Even in the darkest of times."
He reminisced, the heroics of the Hellriders, the sweat and thrill and fear of battle. He could shudder at the gore, but reveled in the victories. He breathed deeply.
"I’m sorry, I was just... Lost in old memories. But you, Yuta. What god do you serve, then?"
"The Somber Scribe," Yuta said, almost sweetly. Adoringly. Zevlor remembered when he would sigh Helm’s name as such. And Ilmater’s, once upon a time.
"The Somber Scribe..." the oathbreaker echoed, trying his memory for such epithets. "Jergal? The former god of the dead?" That would explain the quill and skull crest adorning Yuta’s vestments, certainly.
"Yes. He is still... Of the domain. He scribes for the Dead Three, but their evil is not the end all nor be all of Death, Fate, Eternity. All our names will be writ one day. Even gods."
Zevlor stared at Yuta’s dark hair and angular face. He could see the edges of Yuta’s true age now that he knew, but still the cleric had the roundness of youth. Was he young because he was malnourished and stunted growth, or was he young because Jergal allowed it? He admittedly knew little of the Grave domain, less so about the God-Scribe.