Chapter Text
Tieflings are a rather unique group of people.
There are the visual differences of course, from their regal crowns of horns all the way to their lithe tails, but many of their distinctions are actually internal- or so the rumours say. Their peculiar voice boxes allow them to speak the guttural language of the Hells with ease, they have a natural resistance to heat, and their otherworldly eyes can easily pierce through darkness. Word swirls that their infernal ancestors blessed (or perhaps cursed) them with many more abilities known only to the tieflings themselves.
That’s another difference there- they have their own colourful and diverse community almost entirely closed off from other species. Their very existence carries stigma and unfair prejudice, so their privacy is hardly surprising. Due to all of this you’d never actually met a tiefling in person before that horrid Netherbrain business a few months back.
You’d heard of them, of course. In your school years you’d even shared a dorm in Neverwinter Academy with a half-elf who had met a tiefling once before.
Well, met is a bit of an exaggeration.
Your old roommate had seen a tiefling once before while walking through a crowded market.
All of this is to say, you have no idea what rumours hold truth, and suddenly asking your new friend Karlach if she could actually purr felt incredibly rude at the time. Your group of misfits were focused on stopping a world ending catastrophe and Karlach was preoccupied with not spontaneously combusting- overall not a very conducive environment for a tiefling trivia lesson.
With Karlach now in the Hells you have no one left to ask your tiefling questions.
You suppose if you asked politely then Zevlor might bear your questions with grave patience, but there’s the not insignificant chance that he’d find you disrespectful and prying. You’re incredibly fond of the older man and you’d rather stay in his good graces for as long as he’ll have you.
You couldn’t have possibly known just how much trouble your lack of tiefling knowledge would end up causing.
You and Zevlor meet every tenday at the Hellriders’ new headquarters in Rivington to swap news of the surrounding area, discuss upcoming missions, and to share a lovely pot of tea. It’s become a tradition that you look forward to eagerly, and he seems to enjoy it himself. He’s usually at the compound’s gate waiting to greet you with a small smile that never fails to bring a thrumming warmth to your chest.
Except for today.
When you happily traipse up to the wooden gate with your basket full of teatime treats you find no one waiting for you at all. This is strange, you think, but Zevlor may have simply forgotten that your meeting was today. This possibility stings deeper than you’d care to admit, and so you choose to disregard it entirely. More likely he’s simply overwhelmed in paperwork or lost track of time training the new recruits. He’s never done so before, but there’s a first time for everything.
You pause under the beating noon sun and frown at the gate, then let yourself in with a tight shrug. Sensible boots carry you deeper into the compound until you’re standing in the training yard, scanning the crowd for Zevlor’s familiar face.
The Hellriders were granted a sizable plot of land by Ulder Ravengard as thanks for their key role in defending Baldur’s Gate from the illithid attack, and they’ve worked hard to repurpose it for their needs. The barn has been converted into barracks, the barnyard into a training yard, and the small farmhouse into Head Commander Zevlor’s office and living quarters.
Finding the chaotic training yard devoid of his presence, you turn your search to the farmhouse.
Tall grass sways along the edges of the porch, left untended in the constant face of more pressing Hellrider matters. You mount the creaking steps and knock briskly on the sturdy front door. There’s no response. You shift your cumbersome basket and tuck a lock of loose hair behind your round ear, then knock again more firmly than before. There’s still no response.
Disappointment curdles low in your belly. You suppose Zevlor could have been called out to handle an emergency nearby, seeing as bandit raids tend to flare up from time to time- but that doesn’t fit right. The training yard is too full of recruits and trainers. Surely there would be fewer people here if a response to a sudden threat was needed.
The possibility that your meetings truly mean so little to him- that you could be forgotten so easily and entirely by him that he’d not even bother sending you a note to warn of his abrupt absence sits poorly. You push this notion aside more viciously than you had the first time and stubbornly set your shoulders.
With a scowl you’d never admit to bearing, you make your way around to the back of the house where the lesser used kitchen door is tucked away. Standing on the back porch, you slam your fist noisily against the wooden panels and send a single kick to the base of the door for good measure. Finally, your racket rouses a response.
You hear loud, stomping steps approaching from the other side, and then the door is flung open so hard it bounces against the inner wall. Zevlor stands before you, looking remarkably tousled. His sandy hair is rumpled, his long linen shirt is untucked and wrinkled, and his tail lashes through the air furiously.
“There you are,” you announce cheerily and brush past him to enter the kitchen. The wild relief at seeing him flees quickly once you step inside. Your nose immediately crinkles in distaste. The sideboard is covered in last night’s unwashed cookware and leftovers he must have forgotten to store away in the icebox. The normally cozy room is strangely chilled and the pot bellied stove along the far wall sits unlit and dim. You set down your basket of goodies and shoot an appraising look his way. “Are you feeling alright, Zevlor?”
He lifts his chin and his nostrils flare. It looks almost as though he is smelling you, but that’s preposterous. He sways and his eyes flutter shut for a moment, then snap open into a determined squint.
“I’m fine, Tav, but I fear we must reschedule our meeting for another time,” his voice cracks from disuse. He still stands by the open back door, as though his bare feet have fused with the smooth wooden planks below.
“You don’t look fine. Have you eaten yet today?”
“I-” Zevlor blinks a few times, then shrugs. “I’m not certain.”
“You don’t have to worry about playing host today,” you tell him with a reassuring smile. “Just have a seat and let me fix you up a healthy meal, hm?”
He hesitates, sways once more, then stumbles forward and collapses into the nearest chair. You bustle around the kitchen, already familiar with it from your many visits here. The old dishes and spoiled food are swiftly tidied up with a muttered prestidigitation spell, the stove is lit with a flourish-less cantrip, and a pot of easily digestible porridge is soon simmering away.
“I don’t think you’re as fine as you claim. Do you want to talk about what’s actually wrong?” You ask while you ladle out a serving. His face shines with sweat and dark rings of perspiration have already soaked into the neck and arm holes of his shirt.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he snaps. You flinch at his sudden harsh tone, shocked by his uncharacteristic prickliness. You sprinkle a generous amount of berries on top of his food and gently set the bowl down in front of him, a frown puckering your brow the whole while.
“It certainly doesn’t sound or look that way to me,” you insist as you sit down beside him at the table. His tail immediately slithers over the short distance between you two and wraps firmly around your lower calf.
You freeze solidly, as though a basilisk has just levelled a glare at you.
It’s not that you find the warm, squeezing pressure unpleasant- if anything you find it too pleasant if the butterflies swarming your gut are any indication. This is simply bizarre behaviour for Zevlor. You two are friends, but an impenetrable bubble encompasses each of you at all times. Zevlor does not acknowledge his tail’s baffling disregard for personal space.
His nostrils flare once more, and a shudder runs down his spine. He stirs the food in his bowl listlessly with trembling hands.
“If you don’t like it I could make you something else,” you offer kindly.
Worry squirms inside you, and as though possessed with a mind of its own your hand reaches for his forehead to check his temperature. Your fingertips barely graze his scorching flesh before he roughly smacks your hand away and leaps up as though you’ve stung him. He stares down at you, his flaming eyes wild and his chest heaving frantically.
“Zevlor?” Your brow furrows in confusion. He shudders again, and spins on his heel to leave but stumbles forward instead with a savage yank on your ankle. You yelp and nearly topple from your chair but manage to stay seated by digging your free heel into the ground for support. Your other leg has been hoisted up to hip height by his tightly wrapped tail.
You both gawk down at his clinging tail for a moment. Then he shoots forward and impatiently unwinds it from your limb, his cheeks flushing a deep red while he works. Once fully separated, he holds the offending appendage to his chest, the pointed tip twitching madly in defiance of his grip. He clears his throat.
“I think it's best if you leave now,” he rasps, his voice hoarse and tight.
“S-sure,” you agree, your cheeks flaming in mortification. “But if you need anything please don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll help any way I can-”
“Out! Get out,” he barks. His jaw clenches so tightly you swear you can actually hear his teeth grind.
You jump to your feet and scurry to the door, pausing in the threshold.
“I’m terribly sorry for any offence I’ve given. I didn’t intend any rudeness,” you offer to his trembling back. He sighs deeply, shoulders slumping, and turns his head toward you without moving his body.
“It’s fine. This isn’t something a human could understand.”
With that final word, Zevlor staggers deeper into his home, likely to return to bed. You swallow thickly and close the back door behind you. The walk back to the compound’s gate is longer than you can recall it ever being, despite the distance still being the exact same as always.
You’re nearly at the gate when a chipper voice calls to you.
“Hey, Tav! Wait up!”
You obediently pause and squint in the afternoon sunlight to find the speaker. A lone figure breaks away from the practice sparring sessions, and Lieutenant Tilses quickly jogs to catch up with you.
“That was a quicker meeting than usual! Not much to discuss this time?” She breathlessly asks you, as bright and sunny as Zevlor had been grim and moody.
“No, nothing to discuss at all, actually,” you admit.
“Really? How strange- Commander Zevlor had seemed rather keen to tell you about the newest recruits the last time we spoke. Is everything alright?” She cocks her head to the side in concern.
“He kicked me out. I fear I may have overstepped and offended him a great deal.”
“He kicked you out?” Shock laces her words and her eyes widen into saucers of befuddlement.
“Listen,” you turn to her, a worried furrow taking up home in your brows. “I think Zevlor needs help. He was terribly flushed, he had a fever he refused to acknowledge, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he was sweating as if we were sitting in a sauna rather than his breezy kitchen. Perhaps- seeing as you’ve known each other for so long- perhaps you could check on him? Maybe convince him to see a cleric?”
Tilses’ eyes widen in shock for a moment, then narrow into tiny slits. Her mouth spasms wildly. If you didn’t know any better you’d think the woman was trying desperately to hold in laughter.
“Oh,” she finally says. “That won’t be necessary. It’s just a tiefling thing”
“A tiefling thing?”
“Yes, a tiefling thing,” she repeats unhelpfully.
“What do you mean?”
“Hah!” She snorts loudly. “It’s not my place to explain it. And besides, it’s not something a human would understand.”
“Right,” you agree stiffly, press your lips into a thin line, and then forge ahead. “Just, the thing is Tilly, he looked so horribly ill! If you don’t feel comfortable checking on him then I can pay for a cleric to come by instead.”
She shrugs and shakes her head.
“You’re not listening, Tav. He doesn’t need a cleric. Just leave this be and come back in a tenday. He’ll be all better by then.”
You walk back to your rooms in the Elfsong with heavy steps, dread and worry swirling thickly in your chest.
To be blunt, you’re not great with people.
You grew up as an only child without many peers your own age around, and you were too absorbed in your studies to make much time for friends later on. You’re a skillful wizard, true enough, but you lack the instinctual sixth sense everyone else seems to have for social faux pas. This was a hard learned lesson after years of shoving your foot in your mouth, but now you err on the side of caution and hold your tongue if you can’t be absolutely certain a comment or question will be received well.
This is difficult enough with people from cultures you’re familiar with, but adding the extra layer of unknown tiefling taboos to the mix makes it even harder. Zevlor has never spoken to you so rudely before today, and it didn’t seem like a regular sick person’s crabbiness. You must have personally offended him somehow, and the guilt of that paired with your concern for his health clogs your throat.
Worst of all, you can’t pinpoint the exact rude thing you said to him, and so the likelihood of repeating this same blunder in the future looms high. Years of academic wizardry training instilled a deep draw toward logical analysis to solve problems, and this same training now pulls you to sit down at your desk with a long roll of parchment. Filled with stubborn determination, you list out the bare facts of your interaction, trying to find a pattern in his terse responses.
Tracing the feathered tip of your quill along your lower lip, you scowl in concentration at the results. He definitely reacted angrily each time you inquired after his health or suggested something was wrong with him. He can be a prideful man, but this feels deeper than that. Zevlor and Tilses’ insistence that a human has no place poking into his business stung at the time- but something about that sparks a recollection.
Some hearsay claims that tieflings have an innate infernal immunity to all diseases known to man, but the sight of Zevlor today clearly disproves it. You suppose that rumours such as those could have sprung from a tiny grain of truth, now twisted and deformed from years of misunderstandings and unfair biases.
Perhaps there is simply a deeply held taboo against illness within the tiefling community, specifically against showing such symptoms to outsiders. As a persecuted group it may be considered dangerous to show any weaknesses to non-tieflings, illness included.
You settle back into your chair, satisfied with this explanation.
A new problem rises on the horizon now.
You’ll need to somehow make sure he’s taken care of without directly acknowledging his illness.