Zevlor - Tumblr Posts
I have such a deep appreciation for the BG3 voice actors. They will willingly take time out of their day to make videos just to indulge us. Like. Lae’zel reciting “Milkshake” in a deadpan voice. Rolan lost in a library. Zevlor nervously asking Tav for a kiss. Gale reciting poetry. Astarion trying to get us up in the morning. Jaheira and that lightbulb.
And the coolest part is that, given their willingness to do all those things, that appreciation is clearly mutual.
I have such a deep appreciation for the BG3 voice actors. They will willingly take time out of their day to make videos just to indulge us. Like. Lae’zel reciting “Milkshake” in a deadpan voice. Rolan lost in a library. Zevlor nervously asking Tav for a kiss. Gale reciting poetry. Astarion trying to get us up in the morning. Jaheira and that lightbulb.
And the coolest part is that, given their willingness to do all those things, that appreciation is clearly mutual.
Devotion
Zevlor x G/N!Tav snippet
Author Notes: All I'm gonna say is this was originally supposed to be only about 500 words only for me to finally get to the part of Act 2 where I managed to save Zevlor and OH BOY- it evolved into 1.2k words. Just- I adore Zevlor. This came out having more angst than I initially thought, though, so... Anyways, hope you all enjoy it! [Not beta read]
He pretends not to see the relief in your eyes when you first go up to him after fighting the Mind Flayers and Intellect Devourers. After all, why would you give him such a look with what he's done? No, that's just all in his imagination. He knows you're aware of his sins. Then again, you always did have a habit of knowing things before anyone else does...
Even without the tadpole that now inhabits his head like you and the other saviors, Zevlor could see through your brave mask. In those mismatched eyes he had grown fond of long before your lot had done the impossible all those months ago, he sees a mirror image of himself.
The festering fear that haunts you and everyone else like the shadows that barely stood by in this damnable land. The neverending guilt that attempts to drown you to the depths of your mind as the blood refuses to wash away from your hands, your head chanting apologies as you think about the what ifs of you have done better.
Zevlor knows that look you wore well. He's seen it in himself every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection, as of an occurrence that was... Not to mention, it reminded him of the others... The younger Hellriders especially tend to wear it more publicly, not yet developing the skills to effectively hide their inner demons yet... So many gone, just like that-...
The exhaustion you practically wore like a second skin, with bags that cling to you with a vengeance, one that came along with you before he had even met you. The exhaustion that weighed your trembling shoulders and buckling knees had it not been the adrenaline that roared through your ears-. Hell, he swears he could see some new scars marking your delicate face, even.
Has it been that long ago since he last saw you? You haven't appeared to have changed much, and yet...
And yet, as he goes on to blink, he senses it immediately as he explains himself to you. What once was the hollow void in your chest when he first met you, the one that mirrored his own so brokenly is now replaced with a bright, burning radiance of celestial strength and blessing, one that pulses to the beat of your heart.
A not so mirror image. But it was still you, nonetheless...
No longer were you a fellow oathbreaker who was ever so lost in the world and of yourself. You had what he once had, an Oath of Devotions that glowed in you but more, filling up your broken cracks like the way the false God had shown him if he just gave them his broken faith and devotion and followed what they said...
It was nothing but a lie, as his people got hunted down and slaughtered. The people he swore to protect... He betrayed them all and failed them once more.
But you're here, giving him a look of understanding... And admittedly, it confused him...
Why do you care for him, he's so tempted to ask. The moment you met him, you practically acted as if you were drawn to him like a Moth to a flame... He doesn't understand it. Why care for an old, decrepit man like him? And why did your eyes shine with familiarity when you two first met?
You saved him. And no doubt you saved the others. He just knows you did. From all that he knows about you, from word of mouth and the times you decided to hang around in his little area back in the Druid's Grove, you'd never let anyone suffer under your watch.
You were always so compassionate. He at first thought it was due to being a fellow Tiefling. Goodness, how the world already hated their kinds existence. It wasn't uncommon for Tieflings to stand up for one another. After all, who would if not themselves in the world they lived in? But no... He's seen how you work. Your heart was far bigger than the body that holds it. It was something he appreciated about you.
You were the person he once was. You were a person he wished to be once more. Brave and strong despite it all. Kind and passionate and protective even to the low lives like him.
He adored you more than he could ever realize up until now.
Maybe that's why he didn't hesitate when he hastily said "I want to help- if you let me" even when his throat burned with dryness and guilt as he spoke. Even when anxiety shot high in his blood, his tail pinned itself between his legs, feeling just how drained his body was.
He knows you have already done so much for him, for his people. But... Maybe he'll find salvation and forgiveness if he goes with you. Find redemption. At the very least, he could repay you with his services, even if it's being a meat shield as he goes to try and help out the others. He'd deserved that if anything...
Death was too good for someone like him. He deserved to be tortured for all his failures... Yet, when his eyes met yours...
... Maybe you were the angel he had prayed to the Gods for from before... Who knows? Not him. Not when he was surprised you even listened to any of his words. Not when you gave him such a gentle look, eyes full of empathy that he didn't deserve, as you asked him to join your party, another blade in the fight to come.
You... Want him by your side?*
And even when he had his doubts, not wanting to be a backstabber twice over, your glowing eyes met his as you said, "I trust you." You had said it with such earnestness, how could he deny you like that?
He could never turn you down, not with those eyes of yours... And distantly, he remembers how the other refugees would tease him upon meeting you back before everything went to shit... Admittedly, they were right. Just as you were drawn to him, he was drawn to you... Maybe that's why he cared for you more than others...
"... On the condition that if I ever freeze like that again, do not hesitate to strike me down. Better me gone than being a traitor once more." That was his only condition. And he sees you nodding, ignoring the slight hesitation you had at first.
He couldn't bear the idea of hurting you.
"Let's get you checked up and rested first, yeah? You've already been through a lot. And I need to go check for others trapped... Just follow me closely, alright?"
You care so much... He didn't deserve it.
Oh, how he didn't deserve you, but obediently, he followed you with his hand clasped in yours. For you, he'll give you his devotion and faith. His everything, even. After all, you never broke his trust. You never broke his faith. If anything, you gave him what he had lost for so long. Hope.
You have given hope to him just as you gave hope to others. Maybe that's what caused you to stand out from even your group.
You deserve the world with all the good you've done. Of how you saved his people. Of how you saved him. For that, he is grateful, and he'll make sure, as long as he sides with you, he'll help with any endeavors and goals you put your mind to, knowing it would always align with that good nature you carry in your heart. To the end, he will follow.
'So he swears, so mote it be.'
Just a thought on what Sir Zevlor looked like when he was a Hellrider. Battle-worn blade and gauntlets of Hellrider's Pride are included
BG3 text - Zevlor (8/?)
some of zevlor cut lines?!
source
A future to hope(?) for/The looming dread of horrors you can’t yet fathom
In which Zevlor (unwillingly) thinks through the course of his life, and fights the urge to set a perfectly innocent book on fire.
Tw. unprocessed trauma resurfacing at inopportune times, vomit + graphic nausea, inconsistent/failing memory, victim blaming (on himself,) abuse, graphic depiction of a panic attack, implied death, self hatred.
(Yall can thank @hallowsden for this btw, she had the idea of Zevlor having visions of his future that this entire fic revolves around)
The little pad of parchment in his hands taunts him. His name messily embroidered in the leather. (And the name of his baby sister below it. Guilt crawls up his spine as he turns it over, one name of too many lost.)
On its backside is a moon, the embroidery much cleaner, in the same yarn the book was bound in. It’s aged leather burns his hands, yet his calloused skin is not marred.
This first of many dream journals, and idea of his mother from when the dreams, or perhaps more accurately, visions began.
He remembered this one well, or did he? Was this truly the first? Surely not, (it is) surely he should toss it to the fire and dig up the true original. (He doesn’t)
“Momma- I had a funny dream!”
“Is that so sweetling? What was it about?”
(His head spins, he tosses the book onto his desk as he tries desperately to find the sound of her voice in the haze. It doesn’t come, only the words, flat and empty. He pushes on.)
“I was a hellrider! I had one of the big swords an’ everything!”
“Ooh you should tell your father, i’m sure he’d be more than happy to teach you to wield a sword.”
(An old scar, imperceptible under a myriad of newer ones, aches anew. The timbre of his fathers voice rings clear as daylight between his ears as an intense wave of nausea crashes over him, he cannot run. He pushes on.)
He sees himself, barely 5 years old then, running to his father. He scolds himself for his impatience, he should’ve known better than to disrupt him.
His memory jumps (thank gods) to years later, he’s almost as tall as his mother now.
“Momma I had another dream!”
Concern etched into her brow, his baby sister sleeps in her arms. (What did she look like..? The face forms slowly, older than she was then? Before he can stop it the face of her corpse is plastered onto the memory. The nausea climbs further up his throat, he swallows thickly, and he pushes on.)
“Hopefully not another nightmare..?”
“I dunno, it wasn’t a good dream, wasn’t bad either? I was old, older then you n’ dad. But I was… sad? My chest hurt like I was sad, but I couldn’t cry like when you’re sad.”
(Should he be crying? Has he not done enough?)
Her expression is complicated (she knows the word loneliness, he realizes that he did not) she reaches into the bedside table, the book now in front of him, the cover is blank.
“You remember when we found out about your sister, and I told you I might not have time for your dreams all the time?”
“Mhm.”
“Well, I think since you’ve been having so many not good, but not bad dreams you should try writing them down.”
His sister stirs in her arms. The memory falls away as her burnt flesh warps into something akin to an open mouth. He can’t look away, she cries for his help, for their mother, for peace. Her voice swallows him, and he’s out of his seat and retching into his chamber pot before he's consciously aware of having moved.
Time crawls, his entire body aches as he lets himself lay flat on the floor. He is safe here at least (he is not- he needs to run? Run where? Away, he can’t help her- he can’t help any of them. Pathetic oathbreaker he is he can’t save them.)
He wheezes, feels it more than hears it, barely even that over the thundering of his heart. It’s all a world away now. He realizes slowly that he is afraid, though he knows not what is causing it. A thick layer of mud between him and his body, he is afraid. He is afraid? He is afraid.
The book, it’s in his hand? Maybe not, his senses come to him slowly. His throat aches, has he been screaming? Or perhaps just sobbing. The nausea wanes and he sits up slowly, his body protests, he pushes on.
The acrid smell of bile hits him finally as he sits fully upright. The nausea returns. His body doesn’t have the energy to make him throw up again, does it? Hopefully not.
The book?
The book.
It used to have a latch, he thinks. One of them certainly did. A gift from a friend (don’t think about faces don’t think about faces don’t think about faces-)
His writing is cleaner than he expected, as far as expected for a child that is.
‘Momma says i’m supposed to write my dreams down. I think its silly, but if she thinks it’ll help I’ll try!’
It it silly? Maybe he should start a new dream journal, commission dammon to make the latch, he must know a leatherworker for the cover. He could bind it himself, he’s sure-
Off track. He’s off track. Flip the page.
‘I didn’t like this dream. It was so hot, I was tired, but I wasn’t allowed to stop. It was like when-’
Avernus. Flip the page.
Flip the page.
Flip the page.
Flip the page.
‘My chest hurt this time, it was hot again.’
Avernus. Flip the page.
‘There was a lot of screaming too, I don’t know who was screaming.’
He should flip the page.
‘A little kid with one eye was staring at me, maybe she was screaming?’
FLIP THE PAGE
‘I’ve been stabbed, it wasn’t like that kind of hurt. It was deep between my ribs, like something was missing?’
FLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGE
His chest aches
Deep beneath his ribs
Like something’s missing.
He sees himself, sitting on the floor of his office, is it his office? His room? He’s not wholly sure actually, he was so focused on the visions he’d not fully processed how far he’d moved when he saw his si-
(DON’T THINK ABOUT FACES YOU PATHETIC WHELP)
Yes, pathetic. A feeble excuse of a paladin, a worse leader, he feels his breathing get heavy again.
He flips the page, and with it he is unceremoniously stuffed back into his corpse. Again, nausea, again, he pushes on.
‘I start martial training today! Real martial training! Not just father yelling at me and hitting me with sticks and stuff, I’ll get to use a real sword! I think I will anyway.’
That at least gives him a reference for how long it’s been, did he really use this journal for that long? He was 16 that day.
‘I don’t like the commander. He reminds me of father, mother says that’s a good thing. I do hope he actually teaches me something.’
He was taught plenty, a firm hand did him wonders.
Did his father not have a firm hand?
Perhaps he did, but his father said little to help him parse his mistakes.
When did he stop calling them dad and momma?
(When did he start forgetting things?)
Flip the page.
He’s at the end of the book.
The end of the book? There were many years of visions, they only recently stopped, he thinks in passing that it’s because he’s fast approaching the end of his life. Just over a decade between him and the average lifespan of a healthy tiefling, he’s hardly healthy, perhaps kelemvor will weigh his soul sooner for that.
… of all things to ponder and not react strongly to his own looming mortality certainly is something.
Perhaps he is just exhausted.
He lays back on the ground where he sat. He is home, he may lay wherever he likes. (A strange anxiety claws at him anyway)
His visions from when he was at the grove pull themselves to the front of his mind. Did he see this perhaps? A mess of a man laid on the floor focusing extraordinarily hard on not hyperventilating (again)
He didn’t.
He saw the pod though, of being an absolute thrall. The gap in his chest “filled” (filled with deceit and gore, ripped further open with dirty claws.)
He's glad of all things, of hundreds- perhaps thousands of visions he had been able to decipher that one. The first and last one he’d been able to.
He still couldn’t save them, he knew of her lies and he still fell to the influence of a tadpole he didn’t yet have. (And would never receive)
He sighs, and closes his eyes a moment, don’t think of faces.
Who are you looking at? His face is familiar yet distant, it’s been an age since you’ve seen him. (Has it?)
Halsin? Halsin. Former Archdruid, one of the group you have to thank for your (pathetic, doomed) life.
He is sad? He has certainly been crying. You are comfortable, your chest nor joints ache, there’s a soft pressure beneath you. Like a comfortable bed, but it presses too close to your shoulders to be a bed.
You are tired.
Another looks down at you, pale as a ghost. The vampire, you think. His name eludes you. You feel guilty, it passes quickly, as does he.
You are tired.
Yet another, with a false eye, Wyll. He smells of Avernus, the smell is uncomfortable but somehow not unpleasant. Then another behind him quickly, one horn and a booming voice. You can’t hear their words, but they’re both crying.
You are tired.
More come and go, you are tired. You cannot move, cannot blink. (Are your eyes even open?)
(they are now)
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up more sore than he wanted, with an awful headache and an odd, comforting calm. It’s rare that he doent’t remember his dreams, typically they sit vivid in his mind like memories would. He stands slowly, anticipating the nausea, the dizziness, the ache.
Nothing.
He pours out his chamber pot and returns it to its usual spot. The book remains on the ground.
He considers leaving it there, before tucking it into his desk.
His ribs begin to ache, it's manageable now. He’s not sure what changed.
As usual, he pushes on.
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A young Hellrider
Reblog if you also want to fuck that old man.
PLEASE GIVE IT TO ME PLRASE 😭😭😭😭 To date Zevlor in Baldurs gate is my fucking dream
What hits like Zevlor ‘chin up’ kiss…
I am stunned by this drawing, like it is impeccable. Ugh the lighting and texture and everything, the brushes you used, so amazing. And Zevlor is FINALLY getting the recognition he deserves!!! He really is just a sad dog, I love him
Just a puppy Zevlor things.
signs of life
Sorry to anyone who’s seen this like 10 times because I created a new account… last time I post it I swear 🧟♂️🧟♂️ ZEVLOR PIC!! My sweet wet puppy dog (which, I think it’s so funny that everyone who likes Zevlor calls him a wet old dog, I LOVE it)
STOP IT STOP GIVE IT TO KE PLEASE ILL DO ANYTHING PLEASE THAT IS SO SWEET AND CUTE HELP
The tiefling party we deserved (Zevlor's version)
my only contribution to the bg3 fandom
sorry i cant come im ravishing this middle aged man like heis a delicate maiden. yes itll be all day