Love Wyll Event: Wyll Week 2024

"Great work today," Asharak said to him. With the goblin threat gone, the tiefling had taken a break from training the children and dipped into the celebration for a pint. He gave a tight lipped smile. "It was inspiring, seeing you fight up close."

Flattery, Wyll was certain, and a little thickly laid on. Asharak was nearly twice his age. Nearly his father's age. Still, there was a starry-eyed-ness to Asharak that suggested this might be the truth, and Wyll would be lying if he claimed the words didn't soothe him. Soon he found himself pouring it all out: how he couldn't sleep because of his horns, and when he did the flailing from his nightmares meant his horns cut and bruised his arms. How his teeth ached and kept cutting his mouth, how his skin and bones felt bruised from his new ridges rubbing against them.

"But listen to me. Talking to you as if you don't understand," Wyll said. "Oh, no, insulting you, too! I didn't mean it like—there's nothing wrong with horns. I only… damn. I'm sorry."

"I don't understand," Asharak said. "I was born this way. Well, my horns were smaller, and I was shorter—a bit, only a bit—but I've been a tiefling forever. My parents were tieflings. My sister is–was one. It's who I am. You've had horns for…"

"Eight days."

"Gods. Right, well. This is my body. That is the body you were forced into. But I've put together an entourage for you, if you're willing. We have Guex here, horns nearly as big as yours."

"I have an excellent method for preserving headboards!" Guex said. "It's called: do not use them."

"And Alfira, to help with the fangs."

"We'll have you back in your old voice in no time," grinned the bard. Wyll nodded gratefully; even though his teeth looked the same, each was razor sharp, slowly turning his tongue into a fringe.

"Bex has offered to alter your clothing, make it easier to take everything on and off," Asharak said.

"I'm not the best," Bex said, "but I did all of Danis's, and I think he looks great! Although, that might just be Danis."

"And finally… myself. For support." Again, Asharak gave that tight lipped smile, like his help was a thing that was inevitable. Wyll gave up.

He listened as Guex outlined various sleeping positions and showed him the easiest ways to get a shirt on and off. Lakrissa showed him how to oil his horns and ridges, and massage his neck. Cal and Lia delivered knitted covers for him to wear at night, the base padded with rabbit fur to protect the sensitive skin, the tips padded with old wine corks.

"If you're petty," said Rolan, refilling his wine, "Take pleasure in knowing that she gave you horns any devil would eat themself for."

"She really did," Dammon agreed. He gifted Wyll a set of cuffs with matching combs and ornaments for his hair, and a mouthguard to use at night. In a low voice he said, "A lot of us use them when our adult fangs come in. Wax can help it stay."

Wyll popped it in then popped it out, fumbling it into Karlach's pint. She laughed until she coughed and dared him to chug it.

Alfira nearly got his teeth handled by the end of the evening, and Wyll only nicked his tongue once saying "salutations". Lakrissa, with a wink, offered to teach him how to kiss, but Alfira whacked on the horn until she apologized. The kids gave him a bag of hard candies they said could help his mouth heal. All the tieflings held flame behind his horns until they were convinced that it had a core and not a root, and thus wouldn't shed, then Zevlor himself taught Wyll the best way to avoid bleeding out from a broken horn, Karlach chiming in about her own experience losing one. She even apologized to him–to him, the sword who nearly killed an innocent tiefling at the command of a devil!–for her reaction to his punishment.

"I should've done something more," she said. "Just, seeing Mizora after all that time? All I could do was sass her. I'm sorry, Wyll. I'll make it up to you."

Somehow Wyll kept the proper decorum, assuring her she didn't need to, before slipping off into the forest.

"Wyll," Asharak called, following him. "Where are you going? Mirkon wants to give you something he wrote."

"It's too much," he said. Overwhelmed, touched, Wyll found himself tearing up. His voice went thick, his new ridges hardening with emotion. "Everyone is far too generous. I haven't done anything to deserve this."

"You saved the Grove," Asharak said, patting his shoulder. "Twice. But even if you hadn't, you're a person. Something awful happened to you. We can help. You deserve to be helped, saer."

"I…" Wyll's words got lost somewhere in his throat.

"You don't believe me." Asharak threw an arm around Wyll, and for a moment Wyll was in two embraces: Asharak's and his father's. Wyll closed his eyes. "You're a good man, Wyll. They say to never meet your heroes, but I'm glad to know you. Now, you don't need to go back to the party, but Mirkon will cry if he doesn't get this story to you. And, er, try not to laugh, but he spelled your name wrong the entire way through. Wyll with an i. Can you imagine?"

There was the story of the girl off to save her brother from the fae with her frying pan. The girl who went to defeat the dragon queen and instead befriended her. The boy whose apprenticeship made him see red. The abandoned son who uncovered a plot against the gods. A team blessed (cursed?) by a changeling to fight an invading force.

All of them young, all of them brave.

The first time Wyll saw death, he lay awake and tried to forget about it, like the apprentice tried to forget what he had learned. But no, just as in the book, growing up meant seeing reality, experiencing it. When his sword was heavy, he thought of the burden his favorite characters held. How each of the shapeshifters suffered and adapted and what kind of warrior he wanted to be. Glib? Determined? Bloodthirsty?

When father tasked him to shadow the Fists, he thought of who they were arresting. Like the dragon queen, each target might be subdued with communication and compassion instead of threats and violence. He made mistakes—he even got stabbed by a Bhaalist!—but he also pointed out that the "non-compliant" halfling was signing, not casting. That the dwarf raving outside of Elfsong only wore a nightgown and didn't have a bolt in his crossbow. Wyll even sat on the walls listening to an elf ready to leap into the sea, sat until tomorrow looked like the less cruel option.

Well on his way to being his own hero, he thought.

~*~

A voice whispered to him in the night, warning him of death, destruction—worse than the fire in Rivington, or the Bhaalist massacre in the sewer, or the cult that walled themselves in a sewer tunnel. More bodies than he could imagine. More pain. Dragon's fire and tyranny.

"You heard a… voice," a Fist commander repeated his words back.

"Yes!" Wyll said, nervously pacing. The longer he spent trying to convince them, the closer to disaster they all were. "While he's in Elturel, father left me in charge—"

"Of administrative tasks! He did not give you the authority to mobilize the entire Fist force in the middle of the night! Not to pull patrols and leave the city defenseless because a youth had a bad dream!"

"With all due respect," said another commander. "Wyll, you've seen the warning system we have in place. A dragon cannot—will not—surprise us. We would have heard reports."

"This is your report!" Wyll said. "I'm giving it to you!"

"I…" the second commander sighed. "I can send one patrol to the outskirts."

"That's not enough."

"Even that's a waste!" shouted the first commander.

"Stranger things have happened," said the second. "One patrol, and an extra on the walls, in case we do have a dragon sighting."

Wyll hadn't stormed out. Father insisted that storming was something only the overly temperamental did. He did let the door close hard behind him, and he did stomp a little coming off a curb.

"Hurry," said the voice.

"Where?" he snapped. Grand, he was speaking to it, now. Out loud.

"You only had to ask," the voice laughed. It told him where to go.

Wyll broke into a run.

~*~

Nine people, well armed, stood in an empty warehouse. Their chants echoed off the walls and in the middle of the circle the twisting shape of a dragon writhed its way to reality.

"The warning system wouldn't have caught it!" Wyll said, standing on his tiptoes to see through the window. "Oh, no. I should've told the others where I was going! I need backup. I can't do this alone."

"There's no time," said the voice, but this time it was outside of his head.

Or, should he say, she was outside of his head. A beautiful human woman, crowned in coins, leaned against the wall next to him. Her clothes were fine but cut so he could see nearly to her navel, and from her waist to the strange stockings around her ankles. No shoes. The sight of clean human toes on the dirty, rough ground sent a wave of unease through his stomach. He stepped back.

"My eyes are up here. Your demise is in there," she smiled.

"Who—what—" he shook his head. Not important. "How do I stop them?"

"What is a life worth?"

"I'm not here for riddles! Please, time is running out."

"Exactly. Nine cultists. Nine lives for the whole city. A fair trade, don't you think?"

"Certainly," he said, desperate for her to get to her point. The dragon floated closer to the ground, gravity pulling at it as it solidified.

"Then ten is, too."

"I have to kill myself?" A noble sacrifice. One worthy of his books.

"Oh nothing so wasteful. A man like you—" she said man like his father's friends talked about their stud hounds. Wyll took another step back. "—is destined for great things. Like saving the city. All it takes is a patron, like myself. I will give you a weapon to stop this. You pledge yourself to my service."

Wyll blinked, and in the span of that blink she was no longer a human but a—

"Devil," he whispered, taking another step back.

"Exactly! So you know I'm good for it."

"Why me?"

"Because I need a hero. They're summoning a dragon god. Baldur's Gate is more useful to me as a city than a pile of char."

A hero. A plot by gods. Danger called, a hard solution was offered and a hero arose to take the burden. Just like in his books.

She continued, "Now, there are rules. A bit of quid-pro-quo, certain ad hoc abilities. All of this in-camera—"

The dragon took a breath and Wyll heard it, heard the great sucking sound like a massive bellow, caught the smell of smoke from their torches, and he was back in the heat of the fire, back in the burn wards, back helpless. The city would burn and father would return home and ask him why he hadn't done everything he could do.

"Yes, right, whatever it takes," he said, stepping towards her. "But—father is not to know about this."

"About what?"

"This! The cult and you approaching me and…"

"Very well. Are you certain?"

"My lady, please. They're nearly done with the ritual!"

"Very well. Read over this and sign." He skimmed the first paragraph—

"I'll summarize for you–"

the aforementioned does hereby and

tiiiiiiiiiaaaa

"—oul and service for—"

aaaaaaaattttttttttiaaaaaa

third parties, with the exception of certain outstandaaaaaaaaaameeee"—basically we—"as mentioned "—lend you out to—"AHHHHHHHH—

Too much! It was all too much fighting for his focus. He skipped to the signatures.

The words glowed as he finished, rising over him in a wave of orange script, wrapping around and burning into his skin, disappearing without a mark. And then, deep in his bones, in every muscle, from the arches of his feet to his heart to his tongue, he felt it.

Power.

~*~

Father looked over the empty warehouse, then back to Wyll, and like everyone else, he didn't believe him. Where had they all gone? Where were the bodies? The half summoned dragon he killed? The proof of his heroism? His missing eye, yes, but no one seemed to care.

"But it's true," Wyll said.

His father sighed. "You cannot use Fist resources like that."

"I'll prove it. I'll—"

He couldn't say the devil's name. He didn't even know it, but he found himself unable to say anything about the cultists, his breath turning to hot fire that seared the words out of his lungs. But he could summon up that power, as pleasantly painful as a slap over an itch, and shoot it against the wall.

Horror spread across his father's face, an expression Wyll had never seen. Like seeing those human toes in the alley, like seeing the dragon crawling out of nothing, it shook Wyll to his core.

"What did you—" Father's face twisted in anger. The man who'd never raised his voice snarled at Wyll, snapped at him like an owlbear chasing away a hunter. "A fiend. You sold yourself to a fiend? And for what?"

Hot, heavy arms draped over his shoulder and the devil purred, "A strapping young man like this? What do you think? What do you think he asked for?"

Father recoiled, one hand going to his weapon.

"Tell him the truth," Wyll hissed. "I cannot. You must."

"Oh, my sweet," she whispered, so close to his ear her breath made it damp, her consonants so sharp they cut. "Father must never know. About the cult. About you approaching me."

"Leave," father said. "I'll… I'll make something up. To save your face. But leave, Wyll."

"Father, I—"

He spat, "You've made your bed. Lay in it."

~*~

When Wyll pointed out how unfair it was that she owned him forever, even after death, she simply smirked and said, "Caveat emptor, boy. I gave you the contract. I let you read it over. You knew exactly what we were trading. Ten lives and a soul."

He made his way down the road, blisters eventually turning his stomps into ginger steps. He slept under a tree in the rain. Not with the noble grace of a hero, laid beneath a canopy of leaves. No, in the curled up, sniffling ball of a fool. A more apt description.

The roads he picked were random. Stubble grew, dirt packed under his nails and a single twig worked its way so deep into one of his twists that he decided to adopt it. Wyll, the Bedraggled.

"Don't be so dramatic," sighed the devil. "You look like you went for a walk in the gardens. I'll clean you up."

"Don't touch me," he grumbled.

"You're not nearly as cute when you're pouting. How about this?" She cupped a hand to her ear. "Screams, yes, lovely. Sobs. Begging—ooh, no, nevermind. Didn't work." She pointed. "It's coming from that direction."

He burst into a clearing right as a goblin jumped from a roof onto the shoulders of a woman and slammed fists against her head. She stumbled, curling over the cat she carried, and Wyll blasted the creature off of her. He drew his sword and threw himself into the fray. The goblins didn't stand a chance. As they retreated, the devil's hand crept over his shoulder, took his chin and forced him to look to his right.

A fleeing goblin had a boy thrown over its shoulder.

Wyll sprinted after.

His feet screamed as he leapt over fallen logs and through brambles, dodging roots and vines. His lungs burned. His heart burned. He tore into the goblins camp, his everything on fire, magic already ripping out of his mind, his blood, his bones, phantom heat scratching over him like the tip of a quill, writing his contact deeper.

"Close your eyes!" he called to the boy.

The boy did.

All his frustration, at the devil, at the Fists who didn't listen, at his father, his own father, who left him alone and then banished him, bubbled up. Wyll didn't defeat the goblins, no. He slaughtered them. He made sure they would never darken these woods. He sent a message. Look at me, father. I am a warrior. I am a terror. Without you, I am stronger.

The devil clapped a sarcastic applause as he panted in the middle of the carnage. Again she took his gore-covered chin and turned him to stare into the frightened eyes of the boy.

What Wyll saw reflected there sickened him.

For a long time there was silence.

Then—

"You're alive!" a man shouted, then the boy was in his arms, the man weeping and pressing kisses into the top of his head. A moment later a woman collided with them, her arms also going around the boy, squeezing so tight Wyll nearly thought he was going to have to rescue the lad again.

"He saved me," mumbled the boy, pointing at Wyll, then the woman had her arms around Wyll's neck, weeping her thanks, yanking off her cloak to wash his face.

"You're a good man," the man said, holding Wyll up with one arm while he examined him for injuries. "Who are you?"

Wyll blinked. Who was he?

Not Wyll Ravengard, not that he wanted to be that person anymore. Not a Fist trainee. No, he was a fool who sold himself to a demon, whose every good deed was forever tainted by evil.

But did that matter? After all, even a girl, armed only with a pan, beat a fae queen. Perhaps cursed as he was, armed with the power of the hells, he too could defeat evil.

He squared his shoulders. "Wyll. The Goblin's Menace. A hero."

He could work on the nickname.

Groaning, Wyll rubs his face into the soft pillow beneath his head. So soft and warm.

He digs his fingers into the sheets like a satisfied cat.

It's been just over eight years since he'd slept in a proper bed. He was never leaving it.

"Time to get up, Soldier!"

"Mrrrrmgh," Wyll grumbles, digging his face dipper into the pillow.

"Wyll! C'mon," Karlach laughs. "We got so much to do, so much to see. We don't have time to sleep in. I want to see how much the city has changed. I want to check out the rebuilding!"

Wyll grumbles, rolling away and curling into a ball, his knees tucked up against his chest. "M' cmfy..."

There's a pause.

For a terrifying moment, Wyll wonders if he'd messed up. If he'd hurt Karlach. ...feels like a cold river had opened up in his chest. Maybe he should get up. He's feeling much more awake now.

Then the bed dips. And warmth presses against Wyll's back. Karlach's strong arms are wrapped around him, pulling him close.

"Alright. But this is your idea if your father complains. Got it?"

"Mhm," Wyll mumbles, covering her hand with his and falling back to sleep.

THE END

The soft morning sun shines its rays into a window illuminating a room and eventually waking up an occupant in the lone bed. Wyll Ravengard begins to stir trying to chase away the last of his grogginess. Doing a quick glance around the cozy room he begins to reflect on the last year. The Elder Brain defeated, fighting through Avernus, and returning to Faerun. It was all made possible by the other occupant of the bed sleeping peacefully.

Staring fondly at his love he feels a whole host of emotions: devotion, love, affection, safety. The list goes on but most of all Wyll feels so incredibly grateful to her. Before meeting Nemeia he assumed his life would be nothing but fighting fiends and dealing with the abuse from his patron. No friends, companionships, no love to speak of. But here in his arms is a woman who literally fell into his life, encouraging him to try and defy the odds and break his pact and to finally live for himself. And here they both are heroes of the Sword Coast, no pact, and living their lives in this home they’ve built together full of love and warmth.

Wyll begins to leave kisses to the neck and shoulders of Nemeia, unable and unwilling to hold back the rush of affection he feels for her. The love filled assault causes the tiefling to wake from her slumber.

“Good morning beloved. Did you sleep well?”

Ceasing his kiss-filled attack upon her body, Wyll turns her so he can see her face. Though she shyly tries to dodge a kiss due to their morning breath but gives in at his pleading look.

“I slept amazingly, love. As I always do with you.”

Even though she’s used to Wyll sweet and honeyed words they still cause her to flush and smile like a fool. Something Nemeia hopes never changes. For the next handful of minutes the lovers continue to hold one another in comfortable silence elated that they have been afforded this blessing of overwhelming joy the other brings into their lives.

“So Mr. Ravengard, what did you want to do today? Other than seeing your father, Karlach and Dammon.”

Spinning them so she is now above him with her hands on his chest. Wyll admires her in the light of the morning sun and how it shines upon her skin causing her to glow beautifully.

This is it. This is what happily ever afters are meant to feel like.

Karlach's hand is warm against his own. Her skirts swirl and brush against his legs. Feather light and swift as his heart.

They made it, they survived.

Wyll pulls her in for a spin. His heart skips a beat at her carefree laughter.

Avernus was behind them. They were home.

The music slows as the song comes to an end.

Wyll dips her. The crowd is watching them, but all he has eyes for is her.

"Another dance?" he asks.

Karlach laughs. "You got it, husband."

THE END

Wyll makes his way back to the camp with a spring in his step and a barrel of brown ale under each arm.

By the fire stands Gale, inspecting the deer that had been freshly caught. He looks up from the dear with a dry expression. "I hear you've usurped my cooking duties tonight," the man says.

"Yes," Wyll says, setting down the ale. "I know you like to be in charge of cooking. But it's just for tonight."

"Don't like my cooking that much, hmm?" Gale says, "I must say this," the man gestures at the deer, "doesn't much look like a vegetable to me."

"You're a great cook, Gale," he says in a rush. "Promise. It's just-"

A grin breaks across the wizard's face, and his eyes shine with warmth. "It's just a special occasion. I know. Tav told me. I just wanted to tease."

Wyll lets out a relieved breath.

"The Blade of Avernus!" Gale proclaims. "I'd say that's worth celebrating."

"A new name for a new me," Wyll says, feeling the smile return to his face.

Gale pulls Wyll into a tight embrace, "I'm glad you've reconsidered the whole warlock thing."

Wyll laughs, his heart warm.

THE END

Wyll and his companions are taking a short rest. They'd taken on a pack of goblins and were making their way back to the Grove.

He sits with his back against a tree, eyes closed, enjoying the respite.

Then there is a pressure against one of his horns.

Before he can move, his friends are telling him not to.

Wyll holds still. Every fibre of his being preparing to fight. He feels an odd scrapping against the horn, light.

His friends watch- not in alarm, but awe.

Then the thing on his horn starts singing.

A little bird.

Wyll smiles.

THE END

Wyll jumps down in front of the mirror, striking a pose.

He stands tall, back held straight, his mighty sword at his hip. His right hand braced in front of his chest. His cape drags along the floor behind him, and his father's helmet slowly slips down.

"Never fear, good citizen!! For I, the Sword of the Sword Coast, will save you!"

He grins proudly at his reflection.

Then pauses to think.

Something was missing...

A companion!!

Baldur had Ansur. Minsc had Boo.

He needs one too. Nodding to himself, Wyll heads out on a quest to find his friend.

Wyll breathes, savouring the moment of peace. In. Out. Nice and slow. He's loose and relaxed, his body moulding to the soft soil beneath him.

His clothes might need a wash, but he does not regret the time he's spent here lying among the flowers.

The sun was warm on his skin. The breeze, a cool balm carrying the soft scent of the flowers surrounding him.

He opens his eyes to gaze at the sky, at the slow, fluffy clouds above him.

A loud cry splits the air- "Father!"- followed by boisterous laughter.

It's all the warning he gets before Lily Aurora Ravengard throws herself into his arms. Her smile is bright and infectious.

He does not fight the smile he feels spreading on his face.

Wyll takes his girl into his arms, laughing as she squeals with delight.

"Father, no!" she laughs. "You'll ruin it!"

"Ruin what?" he asks.

Lily sits back and presents her hard work. A long chain of various flowers strung together from the field. "I made it for you," she says.

Wyll ducks his head, letting her wrap the flower crown around his head and horns.

He gives her forehead a soft kiss in thanks.

"Keep still, soldier!" Karlach admonishes lightly, swatting his shoulder with the cloth she'd been using to polish his horns.

Wyll holds up his hands in surrender with a small laugh. "Sorry."

"No. You're not," Gale says, opening up a jar of something glossy and sparkly.

"No," he admits, feeling his face heat, "I'm not." He hasn't smiled this much for a long time. His cheeks were beginning to hurt.

With careful fingers, Gale applied the gel to his face.

"Tav's gonna love you," Karlach says proudly.

For the first time in weeks, Wyll looks into the mirror... feeling good. Happy.