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Dataset card Data Studio Files
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"Not many worship him, these days, let alone remember his name," Zevlor commented. "If you don’t mind me asking... Where do you hail from?" He tried to ask as casually as he could, all too aware he sounded interrogative at times.
"I, uhm. I come from. Here. Around here."
Zevlor blinked. "Really..? This... Particular spot, or, er..?"
"Uhm. A tower. In the mountains. I come from a tower in the mountains. Where Lathander’s temple was built to see the rising sun, our tower was made for the setting sun, once upon a time." Yuta stroked a lock of black hair nervously.
"A tower in the mountains...? You mean The Somber Spire?"
"Is that what people call it?"
"It’s the only tower here before Moonrise that I know of. A clerical retreat turned wizard’s tower turned mercenary outpost turned whatever people make of it. I heard it’s warded by a Wizard and a Paladin, worshipers of a dark god. But none really say who. Myrkul, Bane, Bhaal, Loviatar. I heard the rumors, but admittedly little truth. Always The Somber Spire. I suppose somber comes from the Somber Scribe, then?"
"You’re from the Somber Spire?" Gale pushed himself into the conversation between them, half startling Yuta with his candor. "The current residence, as far as I know, are, yes, a Wizard and a Paladin. They sell magic services of various sorts, from what I heard, and there are most definitely rumors of necromancy and Dead-Three-Curses. I didn’t know they had a child."
"Mn... No one does."
"Well color me curious – what do they do there?"
Black hair was pulled, frail blue body dragged across the stone and thrown into the stables’ floor with naught but a straw cot and the misfortune of sharing the night with his fellow goats.
Yuta rubbed the back of his neck.
"Oh, come," Gale encouraged, misguessing Yuta’s apprehension. "A little necromancy isn’t going to surprise or foul us. We have a vampire in our midst, a Githyanki, a Sharran... A Bhaalspawn or Banite isn’t going to deter us, least while we’re on the same side."
"Well... I just raise animals. And clean the tower. I... I don’t really know. My mother kills the goats and uses their blood. Draws infernal sigils on the walls. And floors... And ceiling. Then I scrub it all clean. My father... Hm... I don’t know much about Paladins. I don’t know what kind of Oath he’s taken. But he wears black armor. Collects weapons."
"Are they both tieflings?" Zevlor asked.
"No, just my mother. She’s also a diabolist. Hence... Goatsblood and such. I suppose. My father’s a human."
Gale hummed, rubbing his chin. "Hmm... Diabolist? Wizards in general can have a great want for knowledge and power. A tiefilng wizard, though, that’s a different weight entirely regarding infernal script. You say your family worships Jergal?"
"No. I worship Jergal," Yuta corrected.
Both Zevlor and Gale looked down at him, "Oh?"
"I... happened upon some of my mother’s old books. Lots of spellcrafts, grimoires, ancient histories. Most of it about our progenitor, Mephistopheles. But I liked the stories about Jergal. Rewriting death, changing and manipulating Fate. So I devoted myself to him. Secretly. I endured what I could, and eventually I had the opportunity to escape. So I did. And now I’m here."
"Changing and manipulating fate," Gale repeated. "A grand power to have if one could accomplish it."
"Hm... Want of power?" Yuta asked himself. He shook his head. "No, maybe not. I wanted freedom. Or for my Fate to... Mean something. I don’t know if my call was answered, or if I had always been fated to do this, and always fated to thus turn to the Scribe. Fate gets... Tricky that way."
Gale sighed. "It does, doesn’t it. I for one prefer to think I can take fate into my own hands. Wield it. It’s my fate, why should anyone else have control over it? But regardless of ideological differences, I do see your point. No harm with getting on the good side of Fate’s Weavers and Destroyers if only for a little self preservation."
"Odd, that," Zevlor added. "I always found the gods to be fickle, certainly, but giving to those they favor. Although falling out of favor with them feels like returning to Avernus all over again."
"Scornful as they are petty," Gale said.
As petty as they were, Zevlor did not blame them for abandoning him. He broke his Oath. His vows. He lost his faith. Even those who paid the gods little mind could be given their secret blessings every now and again. Be turned to them. What good was a disgraced paladin, willfully lost in doubt?
He shook his head. Zevlor found himself thinking on the tower. The Somber Spire. He had heard of it in the mountains and it had occurred to him on the journey from Elturel they may, by chance, ask for shelter or supplies in hopes the residence were not of Bhaalish nature. Banites could be reasoned with, at least.
Now, he was not so sure. The obvious neglect surrounding Yuta’s elusive origins set his jaw.
He’s killed demons and fiends, but he was not in the Order anymore. What could a diabolist conjure? He was torn between an angry passion to protect and avenge, and the wisdom of saving his people from the trouble. His tail swished.
Along the road, gnolls and hyenas cackled.
Dammon held a sword in hand, gritting his teeth as he settled himself between Lakrissa, Alfira, and a hungry, drooling hyena.
Zevlor’s sword swung down, cleaving into the hyena’s neck, making it yip and yipe, scrambling underneath his blade as it dug into its fur and spin. He bared his fangs, snarling, the sharp edge snagged against its vertebrae. He lifted the blade, cracking its bones, reeling back, then swung across into its jaw, blood spraying as its jaw snapped, skin torn.  
He flinched as magic burst around him, shielding his face and instinctively swinging out his arm to protect Dammon and the bard girls. He blinked away the sickly green light, seeing Yuta’s eyes glow and his hand a smoking, blackened claw retreating from the now-husk of a gnoll, withered and weathered like months-old rot.
Yuta’s sharp, determined stare met Zevlor’s. The pair nodded. Yuta turned, stamping a hoof into the dirt to try and better anchor himself as he said a quiet word with Infernal tongue – one Zevlor recognized.
A pale light came with a subtle chill as Yuta thrust a pair of fingers outward, shielding Rolan from a Gnoll’s claws.
The wizard startled, seeing a barrier around him crackle as it prevented the Gnoll’s attack. He aimed, though clumsily in the midst of all the noise and gore, pushing outward with his palm, unleashing a triad of magic missiles.
The gnolls and hyenas were finally felled, Astarion and Lia striking the final one in perfect sync, out from the shadows with their daggers.
Cal hissed as Rolan grabbed his arm to look at a wound. Shadowheart scolded the wizard, pushing him aside to smooth her hand over the claw marks, whispering a healing word.
Yuta saw Zevlor limp near the wagon where the rothké had pulled to safety. He lifted himself to the wagon, pulling up his leg. His calf was bitten, and the wound was already blackening.
He closed his hands around it, concentrating, calling forth. His brows knit. His hands tightened. His teeth grit.
He cursed under his breath. No spell came. His oath was broken. His faith faltered. No gods would channel through him. No power in his forsaken vows.
Yuta came to his side, his own blue hands gentle on Zevlor’s skin as he whispered infernal, restore.
The black pinpricks of disease faded. Another spell. Soothing. Healing. It sealed the wound without a seam.
Zevlor’s heart beat.
He blamed it on the rush of battle.
The moon was filling in brightly every night, and the waft of stewmeats and new roasts every other night was divine – the scribe’s cleric could not be happier to have the treats of meat and full-bodied broths so frequently. A few tiefilngs were rather good hunters, in addition to whatever exsanguinated quarry Astarion deigned to share.
A pair would keep watch in shifts, just in case. Tragedy happened enough, and they were a large target on the open roads as the afternoon readily proved.
Yuta had awoken to Karlach stoking the fire, keeping it low enough to be warm, but strong enough to light. Her own engine glowed, cutting through the dark.
"Hey, soldier," she greeted quietly. "Moon’s bright and pretty, innit. Keeps waking people, though. Selûne must be petty, look at me, I’m so beautiful. Haha."
The moon was full, now. Brightest light in the clear sky, shining down on the camp.
Yuta smiled, standing up.
"I’m going to stretch my legs."
"Sure. Yell if you need something."  
Zevlor sat over the edge of a cliff, legs hanging off, tail dusting over the grass slightly. The moon and tears glittering. He sighed. The weight of responsibility was crushing on his shoulders. Things were going so well, now, but it still wasn’t over. It was his duty to guide the tiefilngs to Baldur’s Gate. He couldn’t let them down. Couldn’t let what few of them were left be felled to the eventual Moonrise Darkness.
He heard a snapping of a twig. He turned sharply, eyes bright.
He relaxed instantly when he saw it was Yuta, tugging part of his nightgown out of a stubborn bush.
He chuckled. "Need help?" Zevlor offered him a hand.
"Oh!" Yuta startled, the bush giving way to his sudden jerk as it snapped off. He brushed down his clothes. "I, ahm. I didn’t know you were here. Sorry."
"There’s plenty moonlight for the both of us." He swiftly tacked on, "If you don’t mind my company, that is. I don’t mind leaving you to your privacy."
The younger tiefling approached him with genial face, letting Zevlor take his hand and arm. He wobbled, but Zevlor’s grip was strong. Firm. He wouldn’t let the other fall.
Yuta trembled, just slightly, as he lowered himself to the cliffside, letting one leg, then the other, dangle.
"It’s alright," Zevlor whispered. "I’ve got you."
A flush came to Yuta’s cheeks, coloring them a gentle amaranthine.
Zevlor noticed, but pretended not to.
"Beautiful, isn’t it..?"
They both looked up to Selûne and the Tears, felt her chilly caress.
"It still amazes me. That we’re here. Alive. Out of Avernus. That we can see the night sky again. The moon. The stars...!" The paladin sighed with grand relief, tilting back his head as he rested on his palms. "Oh... The things we take for granted until they’re taken away."
He looked to Yuta, catching his frost-blue stare. The cleric blinked away shyly.
Zevlor hummed. "When you lived in your tower... Did you ever get to see it like this?"
Yuta’s legs swung shallowly, hooves tapping against the cliff face.
"Sometimes. Selûne didn’t always shine through my window. But when she did, it was so beautiful. Light reflected off the troughs and I didn’t feel –" He stopped, a noise strangled in his throat, realizing he said more than he meant.
Zevlor’s gaze shifted with concern. Troughs? Did he... Live with the animals he raised?
"Are you alright?"
"I... yes." Yuta’s hand rubbed his arm. "The moon was beautiful in my room. Made me hope for a future I could see her in full. And now... I can!"
Zevlor leaned just slightly closer. His tail slithered, encircling behind Yuta protectively.
"Would they ever come after you? Your parents?"
"Hm.. No. I don’t think so. They hardly left the tower at all. I took care of everything. I raised the animals, cleaned the floors and walls and roof and bars and windows. Huff. I’m sure they’ll be annoyed, but my mother could just conjure things if she wanted."
Zevlor was curious what powers his mother had. And was rather heartbroken the boy’s parents cared so little for him.
"What kind of things?"
"Mephits mostly. Some Imps. Hmm. She’s always wanted to conjure a devil, but her books say that if you get it wrong the caster can be attacked, that it’s an insult to get the conjuration wrong. She’s never quite gotten a devil. Still. It doesn’t matter, anymore."
"I’m sorry, all the same."
Zevlor’s face fell, staring at Yuta’s hooves. He’d hate to bring it up, but...
"If you want, I... Well. It’s not exactly the same thing, I haven’t met many of our kind with hooves..." He stammered, hoping it wasn’t insensitive. "I know horse and rothké hooves well enough. I could help trim them, if you want. Dammon could forge you hoofshoes, if you’d like."
Yuta’s ankles crossed instinctively, somewhat self-consciously.
"I don’t mean—"
"No, I... I haven’t had them done in a while. I don’t have the tools." His hands lay in his lap, fidgeting with his fabric.
"We do. Let me file them for you. It’s no trouble at all." 
"If... You insist."
Yuta didn’t mind, not really. The initial embarrassment of his hoof-hygiene was still present, but he could forgo it for the prospect of being taken care of by the handsome paladin.
"Do you... like animals?" Yuta asked, searching for something to say.
"Maybe not as much as druids," the paladin mused. Yuta smiled at it. "I don’t mind them. I... had a horse, once. Brilliant steed. A dapple gray, well trained. And a loud personality."  He offered the information freely, hoping it would prove satisfactory. "Given to me when I enlisted to the Hellriders. We each had a horse given to us. We helped trained them, and in turn they essentially trained us to get used to them." He smiled out to the hills and woods of the Sword Coast. "I loved that horse, truly. She had a certain intelligence in her eyes that was rather... Disconcerting at times. But she saved me from mistakes that would have sent me to an early grave. A shame it.. Cost her life, instead."
His face fell somber.
Yuta’s fingers twitched. He raised his hand, placing it on Zevlor’s arm.
The red tiefling blinked at him then laughed, quietly. "Oh. You don’t need to hear me mourning my long-dead companion. She was an excellent horse. I had three, in total, before... Well. Before."
"I try not to get attached to the goats," Yuta shared. "They’re all going to be slaughtered, so why bother? But... I can’t help it. I raised them. Feed them what I can. They’re... So frail when they’re born. And so stubborn. They’re my responsibility. Even if I can’t promise them a long life, I can least make it as good as I can. Give them what comforts I can."
"It’s noble of you."
"And you," the cleric replied, not realizing what he had said. He stammered. "Sorry, I. People aren’t goats."
Zevlor looked to the stars, thinking of how often his people relied on him, looked to him for safety, shelter, leadership. "No, you’re right. They’re mine. And I want to look after them. I..." He swallowed back. "I hate that I can’t bring back those we’ve lost. We’re so close. But I will do all I can to make sure my people can finally be safe." It didn’t matter if he made it in the end. Only that they did. That was his duty. His final edict.
But by gods, there were so few left.
They spent some time in silence, hearing the sounds of a bird’s cuckoos and insect wings buzzing.