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argetcross · 6 months

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Astarion looks over Wyll's contract, a missing BG3 scene

[The camp in Baldur's Gate. Nighttime has fallen and everyone is in their tents. To Wyll's surprise, Astarion saunters over.]

Astarion: The Blade of Frontiers. Come on already. Hand it over.

Wyll: Hello to you too, Astarion. I assume you don't mean hand over this bowl of stew because, as you can see, Gale outdid himself and it's quite gone.

Astarion: Not the stew, your contract. Since it's clear from that escapade in the towers that someone should take a look at that Infernal scrap of paper.

Wyll: Oh. Oh!

Astarion: It wasn't my idea, you know. Our fearless leader wants me to take a look, since, for some reason, being raised on the suckling tit of Baldur's Gate high society has made you both terrible at reading basic contract law. And if that gods-damned cambion shows her face again demanding more addendums, you ought to be prepared.

Wyll: Yes, well. You make a fair point. Mizora's been getting the drop on me for a long time now. Once, just once, I'd like to turn the tables on her.

Narrator: Normally infernal contracts are hard to get a hold of. What devil would allow you to look twice at your soul signed away? But a tip from Karlach and a sizable donation to a local diabolist wins you a plain text copy of what signed away your soul seven long years ago.

Astarion: ...and you'll want to be careful of this clause in particular. There's two ways to interpret the word and I trust you know devils well enough now to always pick the disagreeable version.

Narrator: The parchment containing a version of your infernal contract is now dripping with so much red ink that it looks as if it was bleeding. Seems like the vampire was as good at understanding law as he was breaking it.

Wyll: Color me impressed, Astarion. And here I thought you got your magisterial position the way most do in this city, through bribery.

Astarion: Oh, I most certainly did. And infernal law is hardly my expertise, but you don't have to be an expert to see how this contract was a terrible idea. Really, what were you thinking, agreeing to this?

Wyll: You heard the story. Tiamat, the Cult of the Dragon, no matter what else came after, that, I won't regret that.

Astarion: Oh yes, you saved the city from Keres's loony cousins. Raising the god of dragons from the Hells, just so they could juice up their magical bloodline in eternal draconic servitude. Pfah, and I thought vampires were obsessed with blood.

Wyll: Wait. What? Those cultists were part of her family?

Astarion: Ah. She didn't tell you, did she? ...Well, before you start begging for her forgiveness, I have it on good authority they were quite evil and corrupt. So really, you probably did her a favor! Saved her some trouble of pruning her own family tree. She probably would have cried the whole way though and honestly, that takes all the fun out of killing your own family members.

Wyll: ...I see. That's quite a lot to take in. I suppose I ought to talk to her later about it. But you know, Astarion, I was wrong about you.

Astarion: Hmm? Are you going to tell me you're just now realizing how smart and handsome I am?

Wyll: You're a good man. I know you were worried for me in your own way. Even if, for some reason, it galls you to admit it.

Astarion: And I told you, I was simply sent by my meddlesome darling. Practically ordered. You know how high handed she can get sometimes. All my bad influence, I'm sure, ha-ha!

Wyll: Alright, I won't push the point. But you know, you needn't hide behind the others. After all, Keres had already told me to seek you out myself and I quote, "I can tell he wants to help, but he'll be happier if you ask him yourself, instead of me butting my nose in again."

Astarion: Ah, well, that is— You know, we'll make a liar of you yet. Because I do believe that counts as "pushing the point".

Wyll: Fair enough. But truly. Thank you, Astarion.

#bg3 #wyll ravengard #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #wyll #mizora #with a sprinkle of keres's backstory #she never told wyll it was her shitty extended family he killed because a) she knew he would feel bad #and b) she doesn't like thinking about them #this however backfired #if you think this is wyllastarion flavored you are right #keres #hello i am wielding my one scrap of dnd lore with impunity #my fic #sorta

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wellthebardsdead · 3 months

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How Falûne’s story would have gone if Raphael saved him from father Keldran-

———

Falûne: *a tiny cambion toddler, screaming in fear and confusion as he tries to wake his mother as she lays in a pool of her own blood, the corrupt priests of Selûne surrounding him, father keldrans hand reaching out to grab him*

Keldran: Come here you filthy hellspawn-

Falûne: *looks up, not at him, but at the red cambion swooping up behind him* h-huh?

*a few minutes later*

Raphael: *standing over Keldran as the priest lay bloodied and dying by Falûnes mother, smiling and holding out his hands to his nephew* come here, you’re safe now, uncle Raphael’s here.

Falûne: *cries and toddles into his arms, gripping onto his doublet as he lifts him into a hug* mama sleeping??

Raphael: *looks down at his sisters body. The young woman oblivious to her fiendish heritage, devoted herself to Selûne… only to be discovered as a devil by the corrupt priesthood and killed upon them finding out about her son, her little Lûne* Yes nephew… Your mothers just sleeping. *turns and steps on Keldran as he carries him to the door*

Keldran: *hisses in pain and grabs the cambions boot* Y-you fiend, hand over th-the boy-

Raphael: *glares down at him* My sister, loved you. She had no clue of her heritage. Her family, of me… *looks at Falûne as the toddler nuzzles into him* And you killed her, right in front of your own son… *glares back down at him* And I fear that will only be the start of your cruelty… he’ll be far safer in my hands than he’ll ever be in your claws. *kicks the high elf in the face before carrying his nephew to safety*

*20 years later*

Astarion: and just why should we trust a devil?

Falûne: *a handsome young devil and prince of the hells following nearly murdering his grandfather and threatening to take his throne along with his power, dressed finely and pristine despite the crash and hair just as neat behind his four horns* Simple. Because I. Want. Revenge. Those cultists swooped into my chambers, stole MY crown, kidnapped me and put this THING into my head. And I want to sink my claws into them before they turn into mind flayers, I want to drag their souls to the hells and torment them until they resemble shredded paper! *composes himself* and I know you want revenge too yes? A cure? Let me join you, and I’ll gladly help in any way I can. Starting by- *snaps his fingers making Karlachs engine disappear and a heart appear in her chest*

Karlach: *gasps and coughs clutching her chest for a moment as the flames fizzle out and she’s left with a healthy heartbeat* wh-what?

Falûne: and to make sure there’s no more hounds at our feet- *snaps his fingers again making two contracts appear, Wylls, and the deed of sale of Karlachs soul by Gortash. Both of them suddenly being ripped down the middle by unseen hands before burning up into flames* I might only be at half my power, but if they have any pro-

Karlach: *suddenly lifts him up into a tight hug* Thank you. Thank you so much…

Wyll: I’m… I’m free.

Falûne: … *tears up* w-will you be my friends if I help you more?

#he’s still a good boy #Raphael bg3 #Falûne Tav #Falûne oc #Raphael raised him well and had him commune with the moon maiden frequently as his mothers last wish so he’s still a cleric #just chaotic good instead of lawful good #but he was very lonely in the house of hope with just his uncle and Korrilla

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sixteenstrikes · 7 months

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a little scene for day 2 of wyll week…

“Cracking the fine vintage, I see,” says Karlach, cheerily clumping over. She takes a big sprawling seat, and grins, and toasts Wyll with the cup of fireswill he gives her. “Fuck the Hells! How do they feel?”

“The itch is terrible,” Wyll comments. Light as ever. He focuses on the whetstone, and the blade in his hands. “And they’re a bit sore.”

She shakes her head, muttering. “Gods, I remember sprouting mine as a kid. Got a fine salve, I’ll fix you some. Lovey here can show you the ropes. Little seed oil each day will do the trick. I know you’d rather do without ‘em, but you look magnificent.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“They’re pure deadly. Lots of character.”

“Handsome horns, for a handsome man,” Loveday says to him. “Have a look in Astarion’s glass.”

“…I can’t stomach that,” Wyll replies, lowly. “Not yet. Friend, be my mirror. What do you see?”

“Goodness,” he murmurs. “Where to begin?” The horns, of course, are lovely, though their origin is a nightmare. He meets Wyll’s grieved eyes. “…I see strong and clever hands trained for the rapier they carry— and quite beautiful, too. I see a remarkable mind always at work, and a generous heart. I see a good man who provoked a devil, knowing well her temper and taste for misery, to save a woman’s life. Bravery and sacrifice. That is what I see.”

“Ah,” Wyll says, ducks his head, wiping his eyes. “..Thank you.” Clears his throat, summons a smile. “Such flattery.”

“…To say nothing of that lovely smile.”

“Now I can’t tell if you’re having me on, but I’ll gladly accept it.”

“My dear Wyll! I never tease.”

#excerpt i guess lmao its not even anything but its not done & wanted to contribute a little something to his big week….#my stuff #wyllweek #loveday

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mjwiththefangs · 1 month

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Trickery & Daggers, Chapter 5

In which we get to know everyone a little more. Also on AO3 Masterlist Word count: 2768 Warnings: None.

Wyll’s Patron came for him that night as they made camp. Now, he sports a pair of horns, as well as other warped demonic features. When he asks Morgana how he looks, she softens and smiles at her chivalrous friend, uncertainty painted in every line of his face, and with a chuckle, she reassures him that she sees quite the handsome devil. He laughs, and again, she is glad to feel that she can lift his spirits.

Though she can't help but feel bitter for him; it would seem that no good deed goes unpunished after all.

Karlach, meanwhile, wants to do something nice for Wyll, she tells Morgana how she’s never had a friend like him, who’d stick their neck out for her. It resonates with Morgana that neither has she, and crosses her arms, silently mulling this over and nodding at the appropriate moments.

Friends. Hm.

She ends up finding Shadowheart after. The whole day the somewhat sour cleric has been glaring at her, and Morgana finds that her curiosity outweighs her irritation.

“Who do you worship?” Shadowheart blurts out, bristling.

“I- What?” Morgana blinks, taken aback, “I don’t worship anyone. Why?”

The dark-haired woman narrows her eyes in suspicion.

“You don’t follow Selune?”

“The- moon lady? No!”

Shadowheart relaxes, marginally, then gestures towards Morgana’s eyes.

“Then those marks that appear around your eyes- where do you channel your magic from?”

Ah. That.

She supposes that they do resemble the marks of Selunes followers, now that she thinks about it. Shadowheart is waiting.

“Well. Not from any god or goddess, that’s for sure.” She mutters.

She hasn’t ever been able to discuss her pact with others, not that she’s had the opportunity anyway and she’s not even sure if her patron would object. Seeing as her lips aren’t magically sealing themselves shut, and she senses no ill will of her patron, perhaps she can speak of it after all.

So, tentatively, slowly, she speaks.

“I am… a Warlock. My power comes from the Fey.” She scrunches her nose in thought. There's a faint stirring of magic brushing the back of her mind, telling her that’s enough, unwilling to divulge more to this particular cleric for now. “I can’t really tell you much more than that.”

“Huh. Two in one party. Though I suppose it is nice to know we only have one devil on our collective shoulders” Shadowheart seems satisfied with her response, casually flicking her braid over her shoulder.

But Morgana’s curiosity is piqued now.

“What about you?” She asks, “Who do you worship?”

Vixen-like eyes assess her cautiously, but without hostility. Finally, it seems Shadowheart reaches a conclusion. She raises her chin.

“I worship Shar. The Lady of Darkness.”

The Lady of Loss herself. No surprise of her patrons' reluctance there, they never were keen on the goddess. All the black and purple ensemble of her fellow half-elf suddenly make a lot more sense, though in fairness, Morgana did rather like the colour palette regardless.

Shadowheart is waiting.

Morgana nods, unperturbed. “... I always was a fan of her colour scheme.” To her delight, Shadowheart snorts a laugh. “Seriously though, who you follow is your business, not mine. But thank you for telling me.”

The Cleric smiles at her, and it's the first time her expression has been so warm and genuine. She looks almost like a different person.

“Well. Perhaps I should have told you earlier. Who knew you’d be so… pragmatic.”

“To sharing secrets, then.” Morgana chuckles, “But in the spirit of inquiry, what else can you tell me about yourself? None of us really know one another yet.”

“Another time, perhaps. I’ve shared enough for now.”

With what little Morgana understands of Shar’s ways, she knows secrecy is paramount to her followers, and so she nods, bidding Shadowheart a good night.

Now, though, the idea is planted in her head. She should ask the others about themselves. They’ve been travelling for a few days now, and it seems they will be stuck together for more, surely they should get to know one another?

How strange, she’s been alone for so many years, and she always thought that suited her just fine. Now though, the thought of returning to that life, to how she lived before, settles in her chest, hard and cold and lonesome.

Her brows crease. No. No, it’s fine. She’s always managed. The only one she ever needed was her patron, and even then she always relied on herself, both before, and following the events of forming her pact.

…Still. It certainly couldn’t hurt, getting to know her companions.

The Warlock approaches Lae’zel, ignoring the feeling of a pair of ruby orbs trailing after her. The gith’s sharp gaze pierces her when she stops before her tent.

“Speak.”

Yeah, no, this was a bad idea, she decides, pivoting on her heel.

“Wait.”

She freezes. This is it, she has offended the fearsome warrior, and will meet her end at Lae’zel’s blade.

“You wished to speak to me, did you not?”

Always so direct. Straightforward, even. Morgana gulps silently.

“Yes, but it’s, um, it’s nothing important.” Smooth.

Lae’zel straightens her posture. Despite her lacking in height, she poses a formidable presence. Her expression is unreadable.

“What were you seeking?” Her head cocks to the side, “Questions about the creche, perhaps?”

Huh, Morgana isn’t dead. She watches the gith closely and feels her tension ease.

“Actually, I was hoping to know a little more about you. I’ve never seen a Gith before.”

“I would imagine I am your first”

Lae’zel is proud, and uncomplicated, she says what she means and is surprisingly refreshing to speak with, Morgana finds. She is fearless and driven, her only will to serve her Queen and ascend to the Astral sea.

They spend some time, not as much as Morgana would like, discussing the astral planes, and Morgana feels as though she understands her companion a bit better than she did before. Lae’zel is a formidable ally, and Morgana finds herself feeling just a bit safer knowing that Lae’zel is watching their backs.

Gale is equally excited to glean from her knowledge of astral planes after her conversation with Lae’zel. He tells her about Tara, his tressym. She’s never seen a tressym before. He happily tells Morgana about evenings with Tara, indulging in a glass of wine, occasional poetry and sitting by the fireplace.

He asks her if she is practiced in magic.

Her mouth quirks into a grin.

“I am. Though perhaps not the same as an accomplished wizard, such as yourself.” She allows her magic to flare, the marks flashing around her eyes, and holds up a palm of Eldritch, fae-touched magic. Silently pleased, she notes the lack of interference from her patron. They are happy to allow her to share this time.

Gale's face lights up, joyful in his curiosity. “Aha! Another warlock, I did have my suspicions, mind you.” He rubs his chin speculatively, eyeing the magic above her palm. “Hm, though not quite the same as Wyll. You draw your power from the feywilds.”

She laughs, and feels the silver-bell joy of her patron echoing the sentiment. “A very good deduction, Gale of Waterdeep!”

She closes her hand, dissipating the magic. The wizard’s enthusiasm is infectious as he jumps into quizzing her about schools of magic, what spells she knows, cantrips, and how she learns.

“Do the spells just come to you, from your patron? Or do you have to study them first? Can you learn from studying, as wizards do?” He fires off, and then suddenly switches trajectory, “Ah, the Archfey you serve; they aren’t offended by this, perchance? Are you able to discuss your pact?”

Morgana finds herself pleasantly amused, and again there is no interference or ill-will from the Archfey. “I can study spells, to an extent, depending on their will. I can be gifted spells that she finds fitting; she especially thought Faerie Fire and Tasha’s hideous laughter to be such spells!” She shakes her head, smiling. “As for offending her, well. As far as I know, only one human has ever done so, and they paid with what they loved, if I recall!”

Then, she turns a bit more sombre, chewing on her lower lip as she thinks.

“I can’t discuss much of my pact. Not now. Fey can be very… particular.” In truth, she doesn’t want to, especially seeing that she can’t very well lie. Recalling the events of her pact can be… unpleasant, from a painful part of her life that she’d rather forget. Her pact is forged from a single trade; she cannot forget what she gave.

To her pleasant surprise though, Gale laughs, good-naturedly. “Ah well, perhaps we can compare notes another time. I’m always keen to learn more, a wizard's work is never done!”

She agrees, finding that it's something she would genuinely enjoy.

It’s nice to have something to look forward to.

She knows those cerise eyes have been following her all evening. He’s been watching with thinly veiled amusement and he watches her still, expectantly.

There’s a long silence between them, and his expression twinkles with mischief.

She doesn’t greet him, not really. Despite his assistance in the grove, she hasn’t really spoken to him, nor does she know anything about him. Time to remedy that. She clears her throat.

“Tell me about yourself, Astarion.”

“Oh, what’s to tell- I already told you I'm a magistrate, it's all rather tedious, really.” He breezes.

Liar.

She can’t help herself. “Does anything honest ever leave your mouth?”

He laughs. The damned elf actually has the audacity to laugh at her while she scowls, feeling petulant. She shifts her weight to one leg, jutting out her hip as she does so.

“Something funny?” She asks dryly.

His laughter fades, though he still looks bemused, peering down at her. The gaze isn’t unpleasant, but she’s quickly learning that he’s rather damn perceptive.

“You’re favouring that leg.”

Too damn perceptive. She doesn’t respond straight away.

Years of caution have served her well, and despite the comfort she’s beginning to find in her companions, she is still not prepared to trust them with her weakness. She thinks fast. She doesn’t need to tell the whole truth, but a half truth will do nicely.

“Pulled a muscle.”

“Of course, my apologies.” He tips his head in a performative bow, that perfect smirk not faltering. In doing so, he leans closer to her, his perfume washing over her senses and her pulse spikes.

She swallows and takes a tentative step back, creating space between them again, his eyes following her movement. She again silently curses him; he’s damn handsome and he knows it, and he certainly knows how to use those charms of his.

Realising the secretive, smooth-talking elf will likely not be sharing anything more about himself, or anything honest for that matter, she gives in. She can deal with him another day.

There’s one thing she has come to realise about Astarion though. He may be a devious flirt, but he’s outright vicious as a rogue. He’s cunning too, and she knows already that her patron likes him.

So, resigning herself to understanding him better another time, she excuses herself and decides to wait around the fire until it's time for her night watch and then she can pull out her journal and fill in more pages.

Later on, Morgana sits, spent and exhausted, beside the crackling flames. The sound is soothing, a comfort she has long sought out during her life. Stormy, weary eyes watch as the fire dances and pops and sparks and she hums appreciatively, basking in its warmth with palms outstretched.

Beside her, the book lies partially forgotten, the quill expectantly laid alongside its cover. Her thoughts are laid bare upon its pages; childhood, youth- incoherent noise scrawled upon the parchment surface, her study notes on literacy, her constant hunger while living rough, and crude sketches of things she's seen alongside them.

Tonight, her journal is far from her mind as she drifts off, welcoming the permeable heat of the fire and the lulling embrace of sleep.

But, the journal is not unnoticed by another. An elegant pale hand plucks the journal and quill from the earth noiselessly, gracefully.

Ruby eyes flit over the pages. The crude sketches, messy and hastily drawn, recount the recent sights and events in varying detail. He recognises the crashed nautiloid ship, and skims the notes surrounding it.

“Why does a ship need sphincters?” he reads aloud with amusement colouring his voice. The word ‘sphincters’ is spelled incorrectly, scribbled out and rewritten a couple of times before finding the correct spelling, complete with an exclamation mark.

He flips back a few pages. A, presumably, forgotten appointment is crossed out for the Blushing Mermaid, first light! The words ‘fucking mindflayers’ are scrawled bitterly beside them.

He chuckles once, and nods his approval of the unfinished mermaid sketch on the opposite page.

He flips the pages back in bigger chunks now, catching glimpses and peeks into her life, spotting idle thoughts dotted through the pages, including ‘cold day’, ‘another headache’, a few odd instances of just ‘hunger’ that he finds himself very much relating to. Then his brow creases in thought. He should have reached the first page by now, yet it still appears as if he is barely halfway through, and even the pages are beginning to look a little more old and worn and yellowed with time and he clicks his tongue in realisation.

She's enchanted the journal; infinite pages, so she never needs to carry more than the singular tome with her. His expression softens as he glances at the messier writing, the simpler drawings and the clumsy spelling. The repeated lines written by unsteady hands. Most of it is in common, but he recognises the few bits of script in very rough elvish.

The journal snaps shut suddenly, and he rolls his eyes with an irritated tsk.

“I was reading that.”

“It's private.” She glares, well squints really, at him from where she's propped up on one elbow on the ground, her hair mussed up from her brief sleep. She flicks her wrist and the journal jerks into her hand.

Astarions lips curl up and he cocks his head, facing her fully.

“Neat trick.”

Morgana huffs and narrows her eyes, unamused, sparing a quick worried glance at the journal before tucking it away back in her pack. She seems to squirm under his gaze.

“You seem tired, darling, perhaps I should take over the watch?” He suggests, lowering his voice to a smooth purr. He studies her, as she blinks and considers him. The way she worries at her lower lip, the bags under her eyes and smudged eyeliner.

He isn’t jesting when he says she looks worn out. She relents with a heavy sigh, and sluggishly gets to her feet, brushing dust and dirt from her clothes. It's even more apparent now, standing unsteadily on her feet, that she’s favouring her leg. The little half-human is very unbalanced, her full weight bearing on one side, and under closer examination, he realises her left leg is not completely straight. Up until this evening, she’d been hiding it well.

Ah. So this isn’t something new.

This is habitual, the way she adjusts her posture. She blinks sleep from her eyes, and it dawns on her that he’s watching, and she shifts, ever so slightly, but just enough to be stood straight, her crooked leg carefully turned to appear not so.

She clears her throat, and her guard is up again.

“In any case. If you’re taking over my watch, I'll retire for the night.”

Astarion says nothing. He bends at the waist and opens his arm towards her tent, wishing her ‘Sweet dreams’ as she passes him. Her gait is practised, but in her exhaustion, it fails to hide the oh-so-subtle limp in her step.

Curious. He rubs his hand over his chin in thought. He had assumed he was getting to her lately, luring her in with flirtations and suggestive words. He’d seen that pretty flush on her cheeks, his sharp ears had heard how her heart sped up. Yet, she still maintains a distance.

He would have to try something different.

Even more curious, he realised, he’d seen the scrawl near the start of her book. Her literary difficulty with reading and writing, had she taught herself? What about Elvish?

Oh the things he could murmur in her ear in their shared tongue.

Astarion decides that he rather liked the sound of that, actually.

#mj writes #fanfiction #astarion #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 tav #baldurs gate fanfic #baldurs gate fanfiction #bg3 fanfic

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too-destiny-panda · 7 months

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Wyllvember Day 2: Wyll and Tav/The Devil

A/N:This time I switched Day 3 and Day 2 of @sagscrib 's prompt list to better fit the Wyllweek one by @commander-yinello. Hopefully you guys enjoy and thank you for the feedback on the first one, it warmed my heart that I haven't lost my touch as much as I thought:)

This would have been much, much longer than it already is, but I figured there would be another time for me to elaborate on this relationship. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

WC:820

Ah, how quickly one’s fate can change. Be it through physical or mental changes, it truly puts into perspective how flitting one’s sense of self is in the grand scheme of things. Our minds and bodies ever aging, ever changing. A small cut from a stray cat and your appearance is altered, no matter how small or unperceivable that change may be. The only exception to this is the celestial, fey and fiendish beings, perhaps, and even then, they may pick and choose how to manifest themselves to the mortal eye. And if a mortal soul does indeed at some point decide to drastically change their physiology, be it a druid using their wild shape or a bard deciding that their hair needs a different hue, they do so mostly willingly, and the majority of the time, the change is temporary. Not all are so lucky.

When Mizora enacted her punishment for the breaching of her contract (because it is her contract, no matter how technical one gets), she dragged Wyll Ravengard through the burning river Styx, through the hottest hellfire, and turned him into a devil. Gone was his warm brown eye, replaced by a pool of blood red in a black expanse. His neck was forced to begin to adjust to the curved horns now framing his head like a twisted halo as ridges grew into, and on, his skin, his tongue dividing, ears elongating and nails growing into claws. Where once stood the human Blade of Frontiers, the beloved folk hero, was now unrecognizable to many of his admirers as they cowered at the sight of a devil, crying for their hero to save them from himself.

Such trauma is impossible to overlook. A change so drastic, so shocking, and yet it happened in just a few moments. His entire body changed into one so foreign he almost wanted to believe it to be a bad dream were it not for the weight on his head and the occasional glances from camp members as well as the stares of anyone they met. It is no wonder that the Blade avoided mirrors, for a long while, despite the assurances from their leader and a few others that he was still the handsome Wyll they all knew. It was still too overwhelming, and despite being assured in his choice, having no regrets, it was not something he liked or wanted to think about.

Which is how he found himself alone, with a goblet for company as cheers and laughter, and some singing, rang through the air at the party behind him. He couldn’t bring himself to join them, to walk into that space and bear witness to how conversations turn hushed, and laughter quietens at the sight of him. As the Tieflings, despite knowing it’s just him, feel instinctual fear, drilled into them from Avernus as they regard a devil. So, he doesn’t, choosing instead to spend a night meant for revery in the pits of self-reflection.

When Tav had joined him, he felt both a sense of relief and guilt. Relief that he was sought out, that someone cared, and guilt that his choices were pulling them from a celebration of their victory. As he listed all the reasons why he shouldn’t be seen, they listened patiently, offering soft counterpoints and comforting words where they were needed. He truly believed this night was as good as it could get when they asked if they could kiss him. Their words and facial features feigned confidence as their eyes betrayed fear and anticipation, the corner of their lips twitching in anxiety where they formed a small smile. And he meant to refuse, he should have refused, but he just couldn’t. Not when they looked at him with such sincerity and bashfulness that was beginning to turn into embarrassment and regret as his silence extended for longer than he meant it to. And so, he conceded, deciding that this couldn’t be considered selfishness on his par if they offered, as he leaned in to bestow one single kiss upon their mouth. And oh, what a good decision that was.

Their lips were soft and pillowy. Tav’s kiss was tender, uncertain, as if they didn’t really know what they were doing, but he attributed it to nerves and rustiness. When their fingertips carefully brushed the underside of his jaw, he forced himself to pull away, to put some kind of distance between the two of them, before he wouldn’t have been able to stop. Their giddy smile, heated cheeks and starry eyes made him almost regret that choice, but as they parted ways, both leaving the other some space for their thoughts, he knew there would be a better fitted time for them.

And as he laid down for the night, his dreams already drifting towards the person of his developing affection, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of dancer they were.

#blue writes #blue's ocs #bg3 wyll #wyllweek #wyllvember #wyll ravengard #wyll x tav

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slusheeduck · 7 months

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Fictober 2023 Day 27 - Prompt: "I don't know if they'll accept this." Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Just one rest more, and they would be in Baldur’s Gate.

Wyll leaned against the crumbling wall of the old fortress’s tower—he’d come here as a boy more than once with his friends, and they’d play soldier until sunset. He wondered how many of them had actually followed that path…or how many of them were still alive. Certainly no one else had gotten in a fool’s bargain like he had.

“Well, aren’t you the broody hero? Am I interrupting?”

Wyll jumped, and he turned around to look at Astarion. His hand was still on his horn—he’d found himself absently rubbing them when we thought in a new nervous habit. After a moment, he shook his head.

“Of course not, just thinking.” He sighed as he looked over the city again. “What a homecoming, right?”

“Mm, if you can call it that,” Astarion said dryly. “My Baldur’s Gate has been gone for centuries. Living in the shadows of the city as I did doesn’t make it feel much like home.” He lightly rested his arms on the tower’s wall, scanning over the lights below. “It’ll be interesting seeing what it looks like during the day. In-between the horrors that await us, of course.” He looked to Wyll. “It’s been a long time for you, though, hasn’t it? Well, relatively speaking.”

Wyll half-smiled. “Seven years.”

“And you’re only…twenty-three? Twenty-four? Gods, you’re a fetus.” Astarion sighed. “All the same, I hope this cesspool welcomes you home.” As Wyll shifted uncomfortably, Astarion’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I…I’ve dreamt of this, you know. Ever since I was cast out.” He gave a small smile. “I always imagined a big fanfare—the Blade of Frontiers finally welcomed home, my father’s arms open, his pride at all I’d accomplished, all the good I’ve done.” His smile faded, and he let out a long sigh. “Being a devil hadn’t been part of those plans.”

“I think Baldur’s Gate has much bigger problems than your handsome pair of horns,” Astarion said. “And, if we’re being honest, I don’t think Gortash would have arranged anything nice for you either way.”

“I know, I know, I just…” Wyll pressed his lips together, gaze focused on the lights below. “I’ve worked so hard for this…for them. Even after all these years, part of me is…still that seventeen-year-old boy who wanted to be the city’s hero. My city’s hero. And I…I have that chance now, but…” He looked up at Astarion, looking lost as he gestured to his horns. “I don't know if they'll accept this."

“If they don't, then fuck the lot of them.”

Wyll startled. “What?”

Astarion met his gaze. “You’ve done more for the entire Sword Coast than most people would do for the people they love the most. You’re…disgustingly heroic and good, you know. If anything, the horns are a nice reminder that you’re real and not some fairy tale knight out of a storybook.” He sighed, looking back out to the city. “And if the people of Baldur’s Gate—your father included—can’t recognize that, then fuck them. You deserve better.”

Wyll stared at Astarion for a moment, then his mouth twitched up into a smile. “Thank you.”

Astarion waved his hand. “It’s the truth. Nothing to thank me for.”

Wyll puffed out a laugh at that and nodded. “Of course. You know, Astarion, I think you’re actually…”

“Do not say what I think you’re about to say.” Astarion glared at him, and Wyll held up his hands.

“All right, all right,” he said with a laugh. “You’re awful and evil and the worst.”

“Thank you.”

“…but I’m still fortunate to have a friend like you.”

The vampire looked caught off-guard by that, faux-affront softening before he could stop it. He looked over Wyll for a moment, then turned back to the city.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “Drizzt Do’Urden didn’t even leave Menzoberranzan until he was over thirty. You’ve got a headstart on him.” He tilted his head with a grimace. “You should probably stop posing when you do something heroic if you want to get to his level, though.”

Wyll barked out a laugh. “Noted. Make sure the biographers don’t mention I do that.”

“Oh, naturally, I will. Provided I’m depicted very flatteringly in accounts of your first big adventure, of course.”

“Of course.”

Fictober 2023 Drabble Master Post

#fictober23 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #wyll ravengard #LOOK #I have a LOT of feelings about the two of them #And I think they would make great friends #And I wish there was more content of them interacting #IT'S THAT CONJUNCTION OF THE ULTIMATE GOOD HERO AND THE ULTIMATE EVIL VILLAIN WORKING TOGETHER #ENCOURAGING THE OTHER TO BE BETTER AND THE OTHER TO JUST FUCKING DO SOMETHING FOR HIMSELF MY GOD #It's my favorite dynamic #Oops messed up the prompt lol

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limpfisted · 7 months

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“You are one of the most beautiful men I ever did see, Wyll Ravengard.” His fingers trace against the other’s spine, as the elf patiently circles the man, akin to a hungry beast. “And I assure you; I have seen more than your sweet and proper imagination will permit you to paint in your mind.”

Ruby eyes watch the young man with a playful glimmer, pale fingers gripping his shoulder just a tad possessively, now facing him and leaning in closer, their bodies almost touching. “Such a beautiful, soft face; fit to adorn the illustrations of fairy tales girls and boys clutch in their arms, dreaming of ballroom dances and chaste kisses.”

His fingers trace the ridges against Wyll’s throat; his gaze curious and lips curled into a playful smirk. “Skin a rich shade of umber, akin to the summer sky on the very edge of dawn. Painted with tales of heroic battles survived and countless evils vanquished.”

“A pity, it is all there for the people; and not for me.”

Wyll has flirted with the best of them. And he’s no stranger to a well-endowed woman’s carefully timed bounces as she casually mentions how strong and handsome he is. (And of course, he knows he’s strong, and handsome, every bit the hero he claims to be, and ever more humble even in his honesty about these facts as plain as his firm biceps, the allure of his scars.) When these women placed gentle, giving hands on his chest, he resisted a shiver—though never a sharp intake of breath.

It would have been taking advantage of their hospitality and kindness. They were grateful, and he appreciated their… appreciation, and…. well-intentioned interest. But Wyll would never do anything so untoward. He wanted a real romance, not a dalliance or misplaced favor to him for his service. He protects the people of the Sword Coast because it’s the right thing to do, and not for beautiful women’s time, nor their affections. (Though Wyll has sometimes wondered if he would have been able to resist a particularly beautiful man, or handsome woman.)

Perhaps that is what fascinates him so much about his relationships with his new friends.

He didn’t save them. They don’t believe they owe him anything. And while Wyll’s imagination sometimes gets away from him—new poetry litters each of his journals in the margins, musings on the shades of Lae’zels eyes, the tensing or Shadowheart’s muscles as she raises her axe, or a wine glass, the little wrinkles in Astarion’s cheeks, and in his brow, Gods, thank Balduran for the fact none of them can use detect thoughts; and that’s to say nothing of the more prolonged fantasies in his head about being swept away by Githyanki to ride dragons in the sky, or embarassingly enough, though he would never, ever admit this, saving the fair Prince Astarion from the evil vampire King, only to be swept into amazing, gothic adventures where they fought gloriously side by side against the likes of Strahd, Astarion, the plucky vampire prince, always in the softest silk shirts and leather pants, sometimes stained with blood, quipping always that he did not need to be saved, despite always managing to somehow swoon into Wyll’s arms at the end of every “chapter.” Gods help him, Wyll wouldn’t admit to any of that at knifepoint.

Needless to say, Wyll has had a lot of time to think on their travels.

So while he doesn’t shiver this time, and while he doesn’t flinch away, and while his heart skips and stutters as if its trembling in the place of his skin, and while he swallows around nothing, his throat bobbing under Astarion’s fingertips, his tongue feeling heavier and dryer and sharper in his mouth than even his fangs as he gets out the words—he doesn’t pull away. He resists the urge to crane his neck and invite Astarion closer, still. (What does a devil’s blood taste like, to a vampire? What does it feel like, to drink when starved? He imagines it’s like handfeeding a sickly lover. Pressing sweets to their tongue, cool, iced water, to help sop off a fever. Or perhaps it’s more bubbly in your stomach, acidic in the back of your throat. Can one get drunk off devil’s blood?)

Beautiful, Astarion calls him. A fairy tale prince. What magic, perfect words. Astarion, of course, could be lying.

But for all Wyll’s strengths, his heroism. For as valiant, and noble he knows he is.

He can, perhaps, get lost in fantasies, and… roleplaying.

No one can deny him this. Just a drink, a taste. No one is watching.

“A hero doesn’t have to be beautiful,” he smiles, letting out a hot breath of laughter that sounds almost like a purr. Voice heady and smooth, more confident than he feels despite the flush on his cheeks. “You and The Sword Coast just got lucky.”

“I had no idea you were so interested in fairy tales. Which was your favorite. Should I get on my knees for you, see if the glass slipper fits just right?” He takes Astarion’s hand in his, delicate. Wyll’s are calloused, too-warm, thick, but soft, despite the texture. “Would you dance with me until midnight? My hand in yours, like this? My other on your waist. Not too low. I’m a gentleman, a Prince. Chaste. I could hold you all evening like that.” He shrugs his shoulders, tilts his head. “Just talking. Just being with you.”

“I’d be heartbroken if you ran away. Though I imagine I wouldn’t need the glass slipper. I could never forget the way you look at me.”

#going insane over this tbh #THANK U FOR THIS ASK BESTIE

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slusheeduck · 7 months

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Fictober 2023 Day 15 - Prompt: "It's all right, I'm here now" Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

“This is hopeless.” It wasn't often such a sentiment came from Wyll of all people, but the utter despair reflected in the mirror in front of him said that this was serious. Karlach caught sight of him as she passed, and she quickly went up to him.

“Something wrong?” she asked, looking him over. “Gods, you look like you just lost a fight with a Gelatinous Cube.”

“I tried what you said, with the seed oil and…” He let out a little sigh of despair. In his hands were a small bottle of seed oil and a washcloth, and it seemed like he’d gotten oil everywhere but his horns. “This is much harder than I thought. I have a new respect for every well-kept set of horns I see.”

Karlach clicked her tongue. “Aw, poor thing,” she said, then gestured for the oil and cloth. “But it’s all right, I’m here. Let Mama K get those horns spic and span.”

Wyll let out a grateful sigh, gladly passing them over. “Much obliged.” As Karlach bade him to sit, he looked a bit sheepish. “Between you and me? I’m a…little more concerned with appearances than I like letting on. It’s one of those things in court life that never quite go away.”

“Hey, nothing wrong with wanting to look good,” Karlach said, mopping up the oil. She gave him a grin in the mirror. “We can’t all wake up as blazing hot as me every morning.”

Wyll laughed. He glanced up at her as she poured some oil into her palm. “Is this…weird? I mean, I spent a lot of time with tieflings, but if it’s something, ah, personal…”

“It’s not a sex thing,” Karlach assured. “A lot of romance writers just see the chance to use ‘horny’ literally and can’t stop themselves. It’s a bit funny, actually.” With practiced hands, she rubbed the oil along one of his horns. “In my experience, it’s like braiding hair. Get your friends in for a sleepover and talk about who’s cute while you’re getting all dolled up.” She grinned as she poured in a bit more oil in her palm. “So, Wyll, anyone you’ve been looking at?”

Wyll snorted. “The worm in my head’s taken me out of the dating pool for a while, I think,” he said. “Aw, I dunno, Lae’zel seems to like you. Could be worth a go.” She leaned down. “I saw her headed to your tent at the celebration…”

“I thought she just wanted to talk!” he said with a laugh. “We’d literally never spoken before then, and so I was talking about what we’d done so far, and she just stormed out.” He looks up at her. “What about you? You’ve cooled down enough to touch people—tried shooting your shot with anyone yet?”

Karlach sighed. “Nah. I had my hopes, I’ll admit, but I don’t think anyone’s quite ready to take ol’ Karlach for a ride yet.” She toweled off the excess oil. “Anyway, I don’t think anything’s gonna feel quite as good as kicking Gortash’s stupid face in. That might just do it for me, honestly.” She stepped back, looking over Wyll in the mirror. “There you are! Aren’t you a handsome devil?”

Wyll leaned his head back up to smile at her. “Thank you, Karlach. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Anything I can do for you?”

“Well, if this were one of the romance novels you keep trying to hide from us, I’d say there’s a few things you could do,” Karlach said with a wink.

“I’m not…I don’t--!”

Karlach threw her head back in a laughk as Wyll rubbed his now-red face. “You really gotta be more careful when we’re packing up! I saw that copy of Wanting in Waterdeep that fell out of your bag last move.” She gave a big grin, rubbing his back. “Okay, okay. Really? Really really? I’d like to dance with you sometime.”

Wyll’s eyebrows rose as he got up to his feet. “You would?”

“Fuck yes, I would! I love dancing!” she said brightly. “I always wanted to learn those fancy upper-class dances.”

Wyll smiled, then gave a little flourish of his hand before giving her a deep bow. “Then, my lady, it would be my honor to ask you to dance.”

Fictober 2023 Drabble Master Post

#fictober23 #wyll ravengard #karlach #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #Look sometimes you just want to write characters shooting the shit and that's what I did today #I WANT HER AND WYLL TO DANCE #HE LOVES TO DANCE TOO

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