Something I think taken for granted for "good and heroic" characters like wyll is
How hard it is to be a hero in settings like this in gen. especially a solo hero.
And then u look at will especially at 17, especially after just losing half of your vision, and now being obligated to hunt devils for mizora, and not being able to tell people who you are or why you have magical powers
Wylls life has been extremely difficult.
Hes not "some rich boy." In fact, he tells you himself, he never really was. His father became grand Duke when he was 17. His father was a Duke before that, but his father was born to a poor blacksmith father and he was the youngest of six, so he worked his way up the ranks. Even as son of a Duke and grandduke---ulder was champion of the poorer "mythical middle class" lower city. All nobles and patriars are from the upper city. There's no way wyll wasn't looked down on by the upper city and then held to a certain untouchable standard as the flaming fist brat by the lower city/outer city people
And yet even at being some "rich boy" he excelled thru hard work and dedication, making things into a competition if nothing else, in which despite his Father's unsurpance to power, he still had PROOF he was the most charming, after all, he held the record for most sarabandes danced in a single evening, much to the exhaustion to the good lords and ladies of the courts.
But even so, with this "cushy life" (where he would get into trouble, mind you! Where his father would encourage him to get into fights, who would train him with a rapier, where he would drink in taverns in the lower city at 14 despite being "a noble rich boy" and hand deliver letters from his father to sharess's caress before he ever knew what went on with the pretty men and handsome ladies behind closed doors.)
Have you ever been camping, like experienced the holy shit, Outside of it all? I dont even like leaving the house without my phone. Wyll, 17, traveled all over the sword coast, with one eye, who knows how many supplies.
While wyll laughs off the trauma of it, losing an eye is a real ass disability that affects your motor skills. It can be difficult to do things like cut food at first, and it can take like 6 months WITH THERAPY for everything to feel "normal" again. Now imagine fending off goblins, and minotaurs, with no therapy, no physical therapy, no doctor. Having to navigate the cold of winter, cursed lands, mountains, all by yourself.
Having to learn to use you sword again, this time without your father. Remembering him every time you pick it up. Remembering the way he looked at you every time you face down a "devil." Spitting the words he would later say to you at them. They stink of avernus, they have brought ruin
Wyll dedicated his life to laboring for the people of the Sword Coast. It's not easy. He makes it look fun, because he's so proud of himself and happy to be helping people
But its actually hard and lonely. And it doesn't come easy, even to Wyll, I think. He had to train himself, it probably took him a long time to figure out what he was doing
I dont think wyll is really as inexperienced and naive as people think. Hes been to avernus, he's fought dragons and minotaurs. He's seen terrible things, he's STOPPED terrible things, and he's going to continue doing so, and choosing to do so, with the full knowledge of what that decision means, and the hard work and sacrifice it requires.
he's fully aware of who he is and what he's capable of, and he's extremely brave and strong and competent
Its good to be good for the sake of being good! And wyll does believe in fairy tales. But his dedication to the blade doesn't come because he's misinformed. Is he as experienced and powerful as he thinks he is? No, he's 24 LOL. But he's still done a lot! Has YOUR muse hunted devils thru avernus? Has ur muse even BEEN to avernus?
Wyll ravengard genuinely is improvising half the time---but more important than simply "being" good and wanting to do good----Wyll has the experience, practice and competence in serving a community to actually BETTER and protect communities.
In fandom spaces we often talk about how certain characters are "just so good" but we like. We forget about the effort it takes to actually commit to acts of doing good, the practice and perservance it takes to competently serve the community.
You can give the people the shirt off ur back but u run out of shirts eventually. Wyll has made himself an important resource on the Sword Coast for its safety. And I think we take that for granted bc its a genre staple, but like. He worked really hard. He dedicated himself to this.
He sold his soul, and he kept living and doing good anyway
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For Mod Bee, I for one would be absolutely feral over hive mind Ragatha. Extra fucked up points if she’s still in there and partially controlling the body but you can never tell what’s her and what’s the hive because she’s assimilated so well and accepted her new collective. Like the fucking angst that could ensue of her interacting with the other characters and them still seeing parts of Ragatha but it not being quite right because there’s just something off about her on a fundamental level.
// something about this idea is . terrifying ~ ! mostly because this is Ragatha we're talking about . i wouldn't be surprised if someone like pomni gets assimilated . but this is like ... ?? the concept of a strongly moral character being driven to insanity to the point any sense of right and wrong is flipped in their head . the concept of corrupting a purely good character to evil . the amount of torment that will take to make her even remotely consider betraying everyone .
the concept of how nobody knows until it's too late . sure , the general aura is Wrong , but everyone has known that she would never backstab anyone ! ... right ? //
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Imagining Sunday when he got his wings pierced:
CW: Mature, erogenous zone, NEEDLE, suggestive. I...had thoughts and I wanted to write them; no proof read btw; wrote this on a whim. I hope this is not too OOC, we only know so much on Sunday so...
What if Sunday's wings were sensitive? A light touch to them causes him to flinch; those calm eyes widen for a split second at the interaction. Yet, Sunday wears those studs on his wings. Two spiky studs to be exact. If a mere graze of a hand caused his shoulders to stiffen slightly, how did those piercings make him react?
The sight of Sunday going to Halovian piercing studio in his youthful days. As a member of the Family, he ought to look presentable. Perhaps, an added accessory to his wings would increase his aesthetics?
Yet, a Halovian's wings are a bit..sensitive to say the least. They are one's pride and joy, but also one's weak point if messed around. If anything, it might seem like a form of masochism for a Halovian to even get piercing on their wings. As the representative of the Family, he is willing to endure all types of pain - even for the sake of the Harmony.
So, there he was, in a private lounge with his hands folded on his lap. He reclines back on the leather chair, and the smell of rubbing alcohol lingers around him. His gloved thumb fiddles with the satin handkerchief to calm his nerves. The man tending to him reassured Sunday that he was a professional. Any unsightly behavior from the Halovian would remain in this room; no one would hear of what happens in this room. This is a private matter.
As soon as the man started cleaning his wing, Sunday's shoulders tensed up. Cold liquid pouring on his wing meant to disinfect it, but all it did was send shivers down his spine. He bit the inside of his cheek to remain composed and his eyes remained shut. While the piercer searched his drawer for the needle, Sunday squirmed around in in chair. One hand rests on the armrest while the other rests under his chin -the handkerchief grazing his lips.
He knew the next step. He's had his ears pierced before with his sister. That needle would mark him and stab into his flesh. But, that was their ear. It lasted a few minutes and only felt a dull, sharp pain. No, this time it's his wings. A more erogenous area for him.
The area for his piercing is marked. He asked for two piercings, so double the penetration. Double the consequences. The hairs on the back of Sunday's neck rose yet his outward appearance seemed placid. Despite the lingering cold sensation on his wings giving him goosebumps, that signature calm smile bore on his face.
Would it change once the needle went it?
Yes.
The needle's penetration into his wing causes the carefully crafted facade of Sunday to slip out. Now, his hand gripped forcefully on the armrest while the other clenches the handkerchief; the one he's currently biting into. It's difficult to suppress the whimpers, but muffling them is the least he can do. His eyes rolled back slightly while tears crept in. An overwhelming sensation of pain and arousal bubbled inside him. It hurt, but Aeons, it felt so good. The needle struck again for the second hole causing him to whine softly. His body squirms around like those origami birds stuck in cramped spaces.
"Too much," Sunday babbles to himself. It's too incoherent and soft for the piercer to notice. Dazed, Sunday didn't realize the piercer had already inserted the studs into the new holes. Soon, he began cleaning the area again. Sunday's jaw slacks as the liquid coats his wings for the second time. Any thoughts he had faded and only heat consumed him. Everything felt numb to him. He was unaware that the piercer completed his job and begun explaining the aftercare.
Sunday took the handkerchief loosely hanging from his mouth quickly and dabbed the corners of his mouth. He blinked quickly to regain his composure, even if his cheeks were flushed. The piercer jotted down a few remainders on a notepad to reinforce his explanation. He could sense Sunday's disoriented state. The man patted Sunday on his back and made his way to the exit. All Sunday could understand was that the man needed to attend to other clients, but he could feel free and calm himself down in the room. The room is a private longue after all. Equipped with soundproof padding and a lock. As soon as the man left, the words finally hit him.
His gaze peered at the hand mirror on the work table, and now he understood what the man meant by "calm himself down." Sunday looked absolutely debauched. His eyes were cloudy and watery from the impending tears. Mouth agape and lips glossy with saliva. His face was flushed, and small beads of sweat dripped past his cheek. He could clearly see and feel how horny he was. The blood flowing down south made itself present through twitching thighs. A gloved hand snakes down to palm his erection. A soft groan escapes him, and he closes his eyes to enjoy the sensation. A libidinous thought occurs to him. Perhaps, he could indulge in "calming methods."
After all, aftercare is essential in any piercing.
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