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dnd_drow

Dataset card Data Studio Files
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"He had no swordsmanship whatsoever," Rolan mentioned, despite the other actual swords-fighters realized far before he did. Still, Zevlor nodded, affirming him.
"He wasn’t a fighter of any kind, that is for certain."
Zevlor tore the Great Helm off the Dark Paladin’s head. A human, yes, pale skin, one remaining blue eye, brown hair. About as old as Zevlor, if he were being honest. He tried not to think about that for too long.
Though... He had no crest. No heraldry to his Order, no vellum Oath bound to his person, no phylactery of vows. Nothing that ordained this man. The armor was new – or rather entirely unscathed from battle.  Few spots of rust in joints, it was old and worn, yes, but it certainly had no markings of war. No scratches from swords, no scorchmarks from magics. At least not until now. Even Oathbroken, Zevlor knew this was no Paladin.
The tiefling’s nose scrunched in disgust. His tail whipped.
"Zevlor?" Tilses called.
"He is no Paladin. He’s just a man! A sad, pathetic man who abused what little power he could choke."
He adjusted his sheath on his belt, looping his thumb into the leather. He turned away. Sick of looking at this man.
His gaze instead turned to the desk filled with papers, piles unorganized, half fallen off onto the floor, scribbles and diagrams and words.
He perused them, sifting through them loosely. Several of them were just lists. Groceries – he supposed so-called evil overlords needed to eat. Materials. Chores and repairs needed to be done. All rather mundane things. A few diagrams. Zevlor pushed aside the mess of papers to look at them. Schematics for the tower, at least the later additions. Measurements and materials, all made just so. The man was a carpenter, it seemed, but certainly no architect of grand design. It gave way as to why the upper half of the tower were so... Sparing.
A wobbling pile of papers and journals fell as Zevlor and the others startled, stepping back. He crouched, briefly looking through the chaos of pieces. Receipts, meticulously ordered – the most order he has seen thus far.
A list of names.
Zevlor scoffed. A list of ridiculous names. Several crossed out, one circled. Lord Dreadmore. Yes, that was used as signature on several notes. How rather pathetic.
Something caught his eye. A notarized thing, seal and all, written lavishly with practiced, government sanctioned hand. A dowry. Dated thirty-odd years old. Zevlor frowned. The wizard woman had Yuta as soon as she had come of age to be wedded off, it seemed.
A few scathing notes in a different hand, detailing you don’t love me, all you do is use me.
Zevlor felt his heart ache. He hadn’t the foresight to view the wizard woman as a victim until it was too late. Corpse cold on the stone several floors down. Could he have saved her? Would she have thanked him? Would Yuta even want to see her? Had he shown enough compassion? Had he let wisdom guide his hand when he slayed the wizard of the spire?
He rubbed his cheek. The tangled complexities wrung his sympathies.
The walls were decorated with a vast array of weapons, some of which Zevlor had no names for. As a seasoned warrior he could tell many were purely decorative – handles entirely unpractical for actually being held with their odd points and designs.
Ikaron and Tilses helped themselves to a few odd weapons – if anything they could be sold.
On their way down, unhurriedly, Rolan flitted through books with a disgusted face. Nothing of import. Some old storybooks of fairtale knights, several histories of the Sword Coast, clerical spellcrafts that didn’t quit interest him. Still, he did stuff them in a bag. Knowledge was knowledge, if anything.
There was little in the tower by way of potions or salves, medicinal supplies nigh nonexistent. They took what they could find.
Though they found the kitchen, meager in size, filled with roots, dried meat, and scraped marrow. Enough to last a few days.
Zevlor looked into the goat’s pen-room. He poked around the straw in case Yuta may have buried something. But there was nothing. Perhaps too dangerous to leave around animals that eat through everything. A small chest hidden round a corner of the too-small and half-chewed stables. In it were just moth-bitten (and goat-bitten) clothing, a couple pieces of rusted chainmail, spools of thread, swatches of raw cloth, and some pieces of other vestments likely gathered from the floors below.
He noticed a slightly out of place brick. It wobbled when he gripped it. Tugging it free, he saw it was a small hollow, and inside were a few trinkets. A dusty tome. He flipped through the brittle pages, realizing it was crumbling. He offered it to Rolan, who would likely be better at handling it than himself. A necklace – a scroll pendant stamped with a skull in the center. A few handmade candles. Small things, hidden away. He took the necklace. Maybe Yuta would like it back.
On the way down, a few goats scattered across other rooms. Some were certainly diseased. Unfit for keeping.
A small, bony goat bleated. It was a dark color, patchy fur and flaking horns from malnourishment. It looked almost like a kid if it weren’t for the size of its horns. A miracle it’d survive this long.
Zevlor knelt near it from the side, arms out. It wobbled away from him, but didn’t run. He scooped up the small thing in his arms as it bleated quietly. He stroked its fur.
"Oh, great, another mouth to feed," Rolan complained.
"It can eat things we don’t," Zevlor excused, cradling the creature.
Rolan eyed the paladin. Zevlor’s voice was softer than he had heard in a long while. Begrudgingly, he accepted their new companion.
They left the Spire. Rolan managed one last freezing spell to get across the moat.
They found their way back to camp by dark, rushing slightly in hopes the camp would not be overtaken by the things that lurk in the night.
It was nice reprieve to rest after a taxing battle. Lia and Cal looked over Rolan’s new-forming battle scars as he regaled a much kinder version of events in which, of course, his intellect was key. When they asked Zevlor, obviously not believing his hyperboles, the paladin offered a quiet correction but enough to praise Rolan – that he did, indeed, work quickly and effectively against the madam wizard, absorbing one of her frost spells and transmuting it into a blaze of fire, that his perfectly-aimed ray of frost helped Zevlor defeat the Dark Paladin of the Somber Spire. Rolan beamed proudly.
The children chased the goat around. It didn’t seem to mind, as they all climbed over rocks and jumped off them, mirroring each other. It ran, stopped, and waited for Umi and Ide to run towards it as it hopped around. Zevlor smiled quietly to himself.
As he sat by the fire, taking first watch despite others’ insistence he should rest, he looked over the small necklace. Heavier than it looked. He supposed the weight of death around one’s neck ought to be. His thumb brushed over it. He hoped Yuta and the others would make it to Moonrise Towers. Gods, he hoped he and his people could make it to Moonrise Towers. They had no clerics among them to protect them. He must bear the weight of being their shepherd. He closed his hand around the Jergalite pendant, unlinking it and wrapping it around his own neck.
It was the best way he could keep it safe, he told himself. It weighed heavily over his heart.
Yuta stopped abruptly.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
"You alright, mate?" Karlach asked from behind.
"Oh, gods," Wyll whispered. He came up to Yuta, seeing what he saw. Then they all saw.
The corpses of tieflings strewn about. 
Ikaron’s corpse was torn apart, gutted and ripped open. Tilses was speared through. Several others, a few in Hellrider armors. Scorchmarks covered a broad area. Tracks were difficult to follow.
"There’s several missing," Gale said.
"Taken to the cult, no doubt," Astarion added.
"They could be out there, somewhere," Yuta prayed. Zevlor’s corpse wasn’t among them.
He prayed, gods he prayed that Fate would be kind. Just once.
Jergal, please keep his name off your list. For a little while longer.
It was great relief when, after tension with the Harpers, the group found at least some of the remaining tieflings.
Karlach was above delighted to find Dammon, who smiled brightly at her. They both danced around the other – Yuta noticing how Karlach stammered around him, trying to keep her cool despite her engine kept her as hot as Avernus.
Zevlor was nowhere to be found. Yuta clutched his hand over his breastplate.
Wyll patted Mattis’ head as the boy tried, and failed, to scam him for another trinket.
Rolan yelled at Umi and Ide across the bar, Alfira scolding him. He slurred, nearly tripping.
"Poor man," Wyll lamented. "He can’t find his siblings. Said they’re still out there in the dark, somewhere. Alfira said... Zevlor froze? And Cyrus – I met her back at the grove, you had just missed her — she said Zevlor begged them to surrender to the Absolute." He shook his head in disbelief. "Rolan stepped in to save the children. But his brother and sister were dragged off."
Yuta approached Rolan after Wyll explained. Rolan jabbed a finger in his direction.
"And you. Where were you, then? Out saving the world? Playing hero? But not us! No, no. Not us when we needed you. Gods. And your paramour paladin. Abandoned us! Stood there and let them take Cal and Lia! You filled their heads with heroic nonsense and it got them kidnapped! You’re both the fucking worst."
Yuta let him take out his frustrations. Anything he would say would likely be met with Rolan’s typical prickly nature. But it did hurt. He did wish he was here to help them. Guide them. He wished he could take it all back. Walk the same path together, Underdark be damned.
"I’m sorry, Rolan. Do you... Do you know where they are?"
"Dead, for all I know," he growled bitterly into his mug, forgetting it was empty. He sighed. "Or in the tower where the others were taken."
"We’ll find them —"
Rolan twisted, fangs bright. "They’re my responsibility! I’ll fix this! You go save your own arse! After what we did for you! The Somber Spire, that fake Paladin. He wanted to, dragged us out there in that putrid swamp," Rolan slammed his mug down. "We don’t even have anything to show for it! The gods-damned thing was half-empty!"
The cleric stepped back aghast. "You went to the Spire?! Fates of all, why?!"
Rolan bared his teeth, hand pushing into Yuta’s chest. "Because he loves you," he spat. "And what about us? His people."
"What did you do?" Yuta grabbed his wrist tightly with panic in his eyes. Rolan jerked away.
"We killed them. The Wizard and the Paladin. Read some tomes, killed some imps! I took a few grimoires, thank you very much. The least for the trouble."
The mephistian tiefling blinked. Stood in disbelief as Rolan turned back, anchoring himself against the bar as he tried to get his head to stop spinning.
They were dead..? Zevlor saw the Spire. His parents were dead. Did Zevlor see his room? He was finally free. How pathetic did Zevlor think of him, unable to run away all these years?
Yuta quieted his breath. He cast a sympathetic glance to the tiefling boys, giving Rolan a wide berth as the pair cleaned glasses. Yuta knelt to Ide, smiling softly.
"Sorry he’s being mean."
Ide made a face. "Well... It’s his loss."
Yuta cocked his head. "Hm? What do you mean?"
"Well.. I found this book. Old, dusty, weird lettering. I thought maybe he could use it, learn some spells... But he’s just drinking until he forgets the ones he already knows."
Yuta’s glacial eyes peered at Rolan, who sunk his face into his hands with frustration, tugging some of his hair loose.
Ide continued. "He acts like he wishes he didn’t save us..."
"He did save you, Ide. Right now he’s... Upset. He’s scared, worried, about people he loves. But I think he’ll appreciate if you can be patient with him."
Ide nodded. "Alright... Thanks. For talking."
Yuta looked down at the stables after buying a slightly overpriced set of potions from Mattis. He let the tiefling child overcharge him, though. He blinked. Karlach was... holding a goat? And it wasn’t lit on fire? Holding a goat?
He came closer. The goat began to bleat and scrambled in Karlach’s arms.
"Woah, little guy, alright, go on," she dropped it as it ran up to Yuta, hopping and bleating.
Yuta got down on his knees, letting it hop in his arms.
"Oh, my little darling. Where did you come from..?"
Dammon, with thumbs tucked into his belt said, "Zevlor brought it from that tower in the mountain pass. Sweet little thing. Trying to fatten him up healthy, again. He’s so little for a goat of his age." Dammon gave him a sympathetic look. "Pity... Zevlor froze when we were attacked. I don’t know if it was fear, or... Something else. But when we escaped, he... Stayed behind. I’m sorry."
Yuta squeezed the goat tight.
Everyone grimaced. Lae’zel cursed. "Tsk’va. They mean to turn all these people into ghaik. It is best we put them out of their misery."
Yuta shook his head.
"No. We’ll kill the mindflayers. They’re weak right out of ceremorphosis. We have an advantage."
He routed the party to stay by the pods that had mindflayers, ready to activate the machine when he walked past Zevlor. He gasped, hand pressed against the clear membrane. Zevlor jerked and twitched as sheer terror was wracking him, mumbling, children, please...! Not the children... The absolute... the absolute will... save you... get behind me!
Zevlor trembled, fear dripping from his brow as he murmured like he was in a nightmare. Yuta supposed they were in a nightmare.
The cleric felt his tadpole writhe behind his eye, gritting his teeth. His face fell. Zevlor had been infected. He tore himself away, desperately clutching the console of the ceremorphic chamber. His tadpole translated the words in his mind. He opened the hatches.
Zevlor fell from his pod into the sinuous ground, groaning as he shook his head and dug his palm into his eye. A mindflayer above him, ready to strike – Yuta’s palms filled with holy might as he thrust them forward, protecting Zevlor from an acute strike. His face was scratched, but not enough for serious damage. Wyll came from behind, striking with a pair of rapiers, swiftly flourishing to garner the attentions of the flayer.
Karlach and Lae’zel both swung – a massive axe and a greatsword – attacking a flayer in sync. Shadowheart remained back with Astarion, surveying the oncoming intellect devourers. Astarion was crouched behind her, eyes dark as he aimed his crossbow, piercing a devourer through, hearing it screech as it turned to view the pair. Shadowheart waited for it to come close to put up her shield, bashing it into the ground, giving Astarion an opportunity to jam his secondary dagger into it’s gut.
She looked to a mind flayer and threw a holy bolt in its direction. Gale called forth the Weave, a gentle breeze surrounding all he deemed necessary, protecting them in a magic veil as he cast a straight Lightning Bolt, the perpetual dampness of the ship allowing it to charge through, his hands crackling with energy as he tried to call the Weave to bend just enough magic to arc the bolt to slightly adjacent devourers.
Electricity burst from his arms as he yelped. Shadowheart quickly and quietly prayed to Selûne, feeling the mark in her hand course agony through her arm. But a healing word whispered through the electric crackles in the air and reached Gale’s body, sealing the wounds he accidentally caused himself.
Zevlor bared his fangs, a deep-reaching fury burned in his heart and into his blade.
Yuta felt a shift. Something... Holy.
Zevlor’s rage rang, "My mind is my own!"
Harpers regained their senses as they, too, slashed and swung at the flayers.
The last flayer fell by a Harper’s axe.
Zevlor looked to Yuta, his shoulders sunk and head bowed in shame looking upon his heroic little fawn again.
Yuta bounded towards him, ramming his whole body against the forsaken paladin, tightly clinging. Zevlor was caught off guard, stumbling back, but he wrapped arms around his fawn loosely. His tail was limp behind him.
Yuta looked up at him with bright, doe eyes. "I found you," he choked, not realizing he’d been holding it back.