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dnd_drow

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Before, Wyll presumed it wouldn’t have worked. Clearly Mizora had thought of that. She was, after all, a devil with a thousand years to perfect her game. You couldn’t outplay her.
Now, Wyll knew better, and it was getting harder to not be angry at his father.
It hadn’t been until he slept next to Astarion that night that he realized he hadn’t felt safe, not for one moment, since his father banished him, because he’d genuinely felt safe in that tent. With, again, a vampire spawn prone to making jokes on how delicious Wyll was and how he looked forward to "devouring’ him. Granted, Wyll liked the jokes, and he also wasn’t planning on telling Astarion that maybe the biting worked for Wyll.
It wasn’t a good time for mixed emotions. His father had been kidnapped, and one of the worst things that could happen to Baldur’s Gate would be if his father got infected with a mindflayer tadpole and inducted into their cult.
Wyll would have to figure out how to once again not blame his father before rescuing him, and it would have to be before.
Breakfast compounded the issue.
Gale dished out some kind of spiced sausage and egg scramble. It looked delicious. And at least eggs still tasted fine. Wyll was still processing that nothing tasted sweet anymore with his new forked tongue, but if he thought about that again he was going to be upset, so he purposefully didn’t. He’d engaged in enough self-pity at the tiefling party. There was still plenty of delicious food he could eat.
"Alright everyone," Astarion said. "Heads up. Suffice to say, Mizora is on the kill list. As it turns out she’s been hurting Wyll whenever he’s been alone, and Wyll hasn’t said anything because Mizora has been dangling his missing magic powers over his head. Also, he literally can’t talk about some aspects."
"He can’t talk about the pact," half the group said in unison.
"It’s bad?" Shadowheart asked, eyes turning sympathetic. Not condemnation. Not pity. Just sympathy.
Astarion gave a curt nod, and it was easier to have him answer for Wyll.
"Fucking hells, of course she has," Karlach said. Wyll could see she was already going to blame herself somehow, and Wyll felt bad. "If- if you were struggling to tell us or whatnot-"
"Astarion knows now," Wyll said. It was a little unnerving to be the center of that much attention, but it was a rotating system, which made it a bit easier. As terrible as it was, all of the group had suffered. He wasn’t singled out; it was merely his turn.
It was bizarrely strange to finally talk about it. He kept expecting his voice to seal up like it would when he tried to directly talk about the pact. But, he supposed even if it did, he could still communicate to the group anyway, just through the tadpoles.
The sudden freedom was dizzying.
"I was being cautious," Wyll explained. "And if we keep talking, it should be through our tadpole friends."
He pointed with one finger to his stone eye.
<She can listen through that?> Gale asked. <That’s not normal for sending stones.>
Wyll shrugged. <It’s a special sending stone. But thoughts are safe.>
At least, he was reasonably sure thoughts were safe. She sometimes predicted his thoughts, but he was still reasonably sure she couldn’t actually read his mind.
Reasonably sure, at least.
Astarion sat right next to Wyll, protectively. There was the faintest press of Astarion’s leg against his own, and the contact was grounding.
Wyll inclined his head. <In the past, Mizora would reveal herself so that people would know there was a devil in their midst, the better to cast them out. When that didn’t work with you, she stewed, and I didn’t know if she would progress to hurting you. I didn’t want to push anything.>
Because by all rights, Wyll should be a lemure in the Hells. He’d disobeyed. It’d been her right to do so, by contract.
<That’s a risk I’m willing to take.> Karlach said firmly. <I’ll fucking fight her. I don’t got a pact. I’ll smash her head in if she tries anything.>
<Is it a bigger risk than me exploding?> Gale asked.
<No.> Wyll said.
<Alright.> Gale said. He took a bite of his eggs.
<I thought you got the orb stabilized for your suicide mission you don’t get to go on.> Shadowheart said.
Gale shrugged. <Yeah, but, you never know.>
<So, she’s on the kill list.> Astarion said. <After, I must stress, after we somehow break Wyll out of his pact. Not before, as much as I would love to.>
Lae’zel actually took out a notebook, flipped it to a page, and wrote that down. <She will be a fine stepping stone to sundering the head from Vlaakith’s corpse.>
<Who else is on there?> Shadowheart asked.
Lae’zel consulted the list. <First is Gortash. A man who cannot wield his own sword is weak. Befitting he should be nothing more than meat to whet our blades. Karlach deserves the final blow. Cazador is after that, for Astarion. That will require preparation, but Wyll has already made strides there.>
<What?> Astarion asked, panic seeping through.
<We are killing him.> Wyll said. <It’s only fair.>
<We are killing him.> Karlach said. <We know you are worried about what happens when the tadpoles are gone, Fangs. And what’s gonna happen is we are gonna smash his face in. He won’t touch you again.>
Astarion fell quiet, and Wyll gave a reassuring squeeze to his hand.
It was a rotating system after all, though Gale and Shadowheart still seemed to struggle to recognize the horrors they had gone through. Wyll had talked with Lae’zel about this, and she said it would probably take time and support, as it was not easy to break through mental chains. But as she was free of Vlaakith’s lies, she would now aid her companions in breaking free of theirs as well.
They were all such good friends.
<Mizora is now next.> Lae’zel continued. <It will require a descent into the Hells to make sure she dies for good, and it will be a good trial of our competency. Vlaakith for her sins, and finally Mystra.>
<We are not killing Mystra.> Gale said, but not in as firm of a tone as he may have once used.
<She is a terrible goddess unworthy of a single prayer.> Lae’zel said. <Let magic find a new avatar.>
<None for me I see.> Shadowheart said wryly.
Lae’zel inclined her head. <When you remember your greatest foe, we shall strike them down as well. It is only equitable everyone gets a name on the list. Even you.>
<You almost sound like you care.> Shadowheart said teasingly.
<Tsk’va.> Lae’zel said, turning her face away.
Gale patted Halsin’s arm. "We kinda figured the whole Shadow Curse is going to be enough of a kill for you. Not quite a person, but curse-killing is just as challenging."
"Oh I’m being included in the conversation?" Halsin asked. "What are we talking about now?"
Karlach groaned. "Fuck I’m so sorry Halsin. We keep forgetting you don’t have a tadpole."
After having supported Wyll at the meeting, Astarion ghosted the entire party, but not before telling Wyll to stay in sight of someone at all times.
"I’ve done enough good deeds for today, and it’s only past breakfast," Astarion said. "I’m going to go steal something to wash the heroics out. Ugh."
Wyll let that excuse slide, because he understood. He really did. Talking about killing Mizora filled Wyll with dread, because surely it couldn’t be done. Surely it was a suicide mission, and resources were best spent elsewhere.
And also, he’d seen it over and over again. In the past, Wyll had gotten into the habit of making sure he could show people the corpse of the monster who hurt them, whether it was a cannibalistic minotaur or an abusive spouse.
Sometimes, they just needed to touch the corpse to prove it was real. Other times they reacted violently, mutilating the corpse in any number of fashions, through knives or stones or ripping hair out in wet clumps. Some would set the corpses on fire, to make sure the person couldn’t be resurrected. These were normal reactions to have, and Wyll was used to them at this point. It seemed to help the victims and process everything they had endured.
Helm knows Wyll would want proof Mizora was dead if it were him.
Astarion was still grappling with the idea that Cazador could be killed. He shied away from it in conversation, and Wyll was not inclined to press the issue. He wanted Astarion to come around to the idea on his own time, when he grew comfortable with it. When he realized Cazador could be actually killed.
It wasn’t that Wyll disbelieved Astarion when he said Cazador was a tremendously powerful vampire lord; Wyll believed him completely. But if even gods could die, so too could vampires, no matter how much power they hoarded.
When Astarion was ready, Wyll wanted to talk plans with him.
For now, Wyll hoarded scrolls of protection from evil and good. Three per person. Everyone would cast before entering the manor, and if the spell ever dropped, they were to immediately re-cast. This would protect them from vampiric charm and also give them warding against direct attacks.
Wyll was used to hoarding those scrolls. They also worked against demons and devils, and were amazingly cheap for how many things they provided some protection against.
They hadn’t gone far into the Underdark, but Wyll had met, of all things, a friendly mindflayer, and Wyll had a ring of mind-shielding now, just in case the tadpole protection waned the closer they got to Cazador. Shadowheart and Halsin alike had the ability to summon sunlight, and Wyll recently pilfered a relic mace imbued with the sun. Lathander wasn’t currently using it for anything noble.
It would work well against Cazador.
Wyll had known the Szarr manor. It had a crawling feeling about it, and it always smelled of decay, but he could never have guessed that the entire time all matters of atrocities occurred in there with none the wiser.
He loved Astarion, and Wyll would help Astarion kill Cazador. If he couldn’t, if the tadpoles were removed before they could return to Baldur’s Gate, then at least he would show Astarion Cazador’s corpse, so that Astarion could see with his own two eyes that he was free.
And if Astarion wanted to smash the corpse to pieces, that was fine too.
Wyll checked the scroll count, and apparently it was one check too many.
<You stupid mutt. You realize he’s manipulating you. His affection is just that: an affection. He’ll discard you the moment you aren’t convenient.>
Wyll’s hands did not falter.
It hadn’t been distressed victims or irate village people that had perfected Wyll’s unaltering heroic persona: it had always been Mizora. Early on, he’d make the mistake of reacting when Mizora dug her claws in. He’d wince, or falter, or protest back. It only made her crueler, as she figured out what was more precious to him to defend. So he defended nothing to Mizora. He remained absolutely quiet. His hands finished checking the scrolls, even as she cackled.
<Or were you hoping this would be special to him? That he’d spread his legs lovingly. That you’d be special enough to fix him.>
<He told you he spent centuries seducing people to get what he needed. But I’m sure when says love to you it’s real, right?>
Wyll turned to sharpening his blade next, a nice methodical chore. Mizora felt she made her point, or turned her attentions to torment another warlock, as she fell quiet.
He wanted to shake, but wants were passing things you put into a box and never opened. He’d already learned better. He could never know when Mizora was actually watching.
The group had decided to set out during midday. People packed up their supplies, gathered their gear, and mentally fortified themselves for the trek outward.
Wyll made his own preparations.
"You have to stick in the light, okay? And the cub forgets sometimes, so you need to mind him."
"I can do that!" Scratch said. "I’m good at being a friend."
"You are," Wyll said. He hesitated a moment, but it was worth a shot, right? "We were also hoping you could warn us in the future if Mizora approached, the devil lady. Do you think you could help?"
Scratch whined. "I could try, but I don’t think I can help. You smell just like her. It’s confusing."
Wyll let the wave of revulsion travel through him. "Just if you hear her then?"
"Alright," Scratch said. "Sorry."
Wyll ruffled his ears and walked away and didn’t throw up. It took another few seconds to force himself to be fine.
He could still feel the constant weight of his horns, feel the soreness of his neck. The horns also curved around his head in such a way it was difficult to find a position he could sleep comfortably, and his claws snagged in things, fabric and flesh alike.
Now don’t you look better like this? You can’t get steel without tempering.
He hated the horns. He wanted to tear them off. He hated himself for his self-pity, but he also couldn’t make it stop either. He gave himself a few seconds to calm his breathing, and that was all he felt he could spare.
"We’re heading out?" Shadowheart said.
"Of course," Wyll said. "Lead the way."
The next few days involved stomping around the Shadowlands, trying to deal with the shadow curse. They were delving further into an old town and putting various ghosts to rest, trying to carve out a safer path and vital resources, as well try to find the missing spirit of the lands.
It was good they were able to stock up at Last Light Inn, because the expeditions ate away at their supplies. The hunger even affected Astarion, who found it very useful to have multiple donors.
The problem with multiple donors was that Astarion figured it out near immediately. Wyll knew he would eventually, but he’d been hoping for a bit longer.
"You know Wyll, I’m starting to become a connoisseur about blood," Astarion said. "Like feasting in combat usually means the blood has adrenaline in it. Gives it a kick."
"Interesting," Wyll said. He decided to hold out hope. You never knew. Maybe there was something else about devil blood Astarion had discovered.
"I’ve feasted from a number of people now, and yet there’s something extra delectable about your blood," Astarion said. It was said oh so casually, even as his eyes locked onto Wyll.
"You mentioned it burns slightly," Wyll deflected. Yes, he was just delaying the inevitable at this point, but what else was Wyll’s life if not one giant delaying the inevitable?
"No no, not the devil thing," Astarion said, with a wave of his hand. "I’ve sampled from many, and it seems to be exclusively something for you. Halsin and Shadowheart taste fantastic of course, but you? Your blood is special."
Astarion leaned in closer for the kill. "But then I figured it out. It’s pleasure," he said in sheer wild delight. "You’re into it. It was there the very first time I bit you even. Have you secretly lusted after my fangs this whole time?"
Mizora’s voice slid into his mind. <I know you have, darling. Always lusted after those monsters you killed. Want to tell him what you really thought of the minotaur?>
It was hard, to balance the two. Between Astarion’s delight and Mizora’s derision. To stay in the moment where Astarion was being pleasant. Because if he reacted, it would tell Mizora where to dig next.
As was, she had already started clinging to Astarion’s pet name for him. He didn’t want her to ruin more of it.