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halla-hunts-the-wolf · 4 months

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Late Night Visitors

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Declan receives a visit from friends while in the Last Light Inn.

A spiritual sequel to:

Pairings: Male Tav / Wyll

Warnings: sexual tension, ig.

The last time Declan slept with four walls around him was the night before the illithids attacked Baldur’s Gate. He had slept soundly in his childhood room, in a bed that had grown too small, after spending an entire day tending to his mother’s homestead. She always had a list of chores for him to complete when he returned from an adventure, and he imagined the next time would be no different once he and his companions defeated Keneric Thorm and left the shadows behind them.

At the moment, he couldn’t help feeling homesick, as his bedroom in the Last Light Inn filled with laughter. He sat with an old robe covering his bruises while his raven hair fell in stringy waves around his shoulders. To his delight, he smelled of strawberries and mint. After stealing a bath for himself with fresh soap included, he was happy to let some friendly faces inside, believing they could all use some company.

Declan had just finished toiling away at the mats in Mirkon’s hair and was now trying his hand at braids. Alfira watches him through a hand mirror and critiques his form. “Under that next strand, love, not over.” She laughs at his indignant sigh, “Your mother couldn’t have given you a little sister to contend with?”

“She said I always made her want for nothing. I assume that includes a second child. I was quite a handful.”

“I can imagine little you running through Baldur’s Gate, causing a scene.”

Declan hums in affirmation as he gets into a rhythm. With a careful hand, he begins to weave the woman’s hair into a simple pattern. “Reminds me of sewing.”

“You sew?”

“How do you think we’ve kept our clothes in good repair? Astarion and I spend hours by firelight fixing the damages. He’s much better at it than I am, always critiquing my technique.”

Alfira admires her braid and doesn’t criticize the loose ends. “Declan, is there anything you can’t do?”

“I’m terrible with lock picks, always snapping them in two.”

“Really?” Mirkon glances up from where he is reading a book on the floor. The aged pages crinkled beneath his deft hands. “That’s so easy! You can’t be heavy-handed with ‘em, and you’ve got to listen real good to the locks when they click.”

“Perhaps you can teach me one of these days, Mirkon, but for now, I’ve got a spell to get me through in a pinch.”

“You can’t always depend on spells.” Mirkon stands from the floor and holds his book aloft. “The adventurer in this story got locked in a room where his magic didn’t work! He had to use the things around him to get out.”

Declan narrows his eyes, trying to read the title of the novel from a distance and failing miserably. “I haven’t always practiced magic, you know. I didn’t pick up the craft until I started an apprenticeship as a teenager. Before that, I loved to use my environment to make things. I made toy carriages from driftwood or windchimes out of abandoned bottles. My mother couldn’t buy me new things on a farmer’s pension, so I made due. Truthfully, I only took on my apprenticeship to buy myself a lute. I was only supposed to work for Sir Emlyn, dusting his tomes and the like, but he noticed me reading some of his spellbooks and offered to teach me. I haven’t looked back since. He even bought me that lute for my birthday.”

“He sounds like a nice man,” Alfira says, recognizing the hint of grief that laced Declan’s words.

“He was.” Declan agrees, his memories flicking through the day the mind flayers came to Baldur’s Gate and the horror he felt when his mentor of over a decade fell to an illithid’s power. “I’m lucky enough to see him in my dreams, even if it is just his likeness and nothing more.”

Alfira reaches for him, her hand sliding over his own to give a consoling squeeze. As one of his closest friends, she knew about the dream visitor who offered guidance and protected him from his metamorphosis. The dreamer appeared as a high elf with the same striking features as Sir Emlyn, from his golden eyes to his earnest laughter. Whenever waking from their nightly meetings, Declan can’t help longing to speak with the real man, his true surrogate father.

“I dream about my mother, sometimes.” Mirkon continues, tapping his fingers against the spine of his book. “Reading before bed helps. Sometimes, I’ll dream about the stories instead.” He approaches the bed and holds his book aloft. “Maybe reading this will help you?”

Declan feels years younger because of the kind gesture. He can’t stop smiling as his free hand reaches for the book. “Thank you, Mirkon, I’m sure it will.”

The little tiefling beams, glad to be of service.

“Speaking of bedtime stories, I think it’s time for yours.” As the resident bard, Alfira had taken to watching over the children. Declan thought it helped to keep her mind busy and her heart light. “We should go gather the others and get some rest.”

“But I’m not tired yet!” Mirkon complains with a quivering bottom lip, fighting the urge to yawn.

“Maybe you aren’t, but Declan had a long day traveling here, so we should let him get some proper sleep in a real bed.”

“Aw,” Mirkon doesn’t fight as Alfira whisks him away, although his well-worn boots scuff against the floor on their way out.

Declan sits with the book for some time, curled beneath a quilt as he squints at the yellowed pages. He devours the story of a quaint adventure, relishing that, for once, he’s not the one facing down monsters or demons in the shadows. He’s near the middle of the book, as the hero faces down a dragon protecting its horde of treasure when there’s a knock at his door.

Declan sits upright, his pointed ears perked in anticipation. He expects danger to come exploding through the doorway, and magic threatens to fray the pages beneath his fingertips in anticipation. When no such danger comes, he rises from the bed to crack open the door. His heart leaps at what’s on the other side while his fear simultaneously melts away.

“Hey, chief.” Wyll’s standing beyond the threshold. There’s a nervousness to his soft smile that Declan finds particularly enticing at such a late hour. “I can’t sleep, and I was hoping…”

Declan opened his door wide to let Wyll inside, glad that he’d taken the time to freshen up earlier in the day. “I’d love the company. I was just reading.”

“Is that the book little Mirkon had?” Wyll stoops down to get a look at the title, “Alexander and The Relic? A classic hero’s tale.”

“It’s a breath of fresh air compared to the real thing…” Declan’s voice trails as Wyll straightens up, bringing them face-to-face. Their eyes meet in a silent moment of shared desperation. It pulls like magic, and Declan endeavors to lean into it until Wyll pulls away.

“I didn’t come here to…”

“Kiss me?”

Wyll fixes him with a bemused glare, “It feels like more than a kiss when I’m with you, Declan, you know that.”

“I know.” Declan felt the same, itching to be closer to the man, even after their lips parted or their hands intertwined after a battle. “And I know you want to take things slow. I told you I was okay with that, down by the riverside, and I meant it.”

“You’re so sweet.” Wyll turns back to him, reaching out to cradle his freckled cheek within the palm of his callused hand. “Thank you, truly, I’ve scarcely met someone as generous as you.”

“Stop it.” Declan shushes Wyll by tilting his head and placing a kiss against his palm, delighting in the way the tension melted from his posture due to the soft gesture. “You’ll make me blush. It’s unbecoming.”

“Then what am I?” Wyll wonders, hinting at the slight darkening of his cheeks. “I think I need some air. Come watch the stars with me?”

They walk hand-in-hand onto the balcony that wraps along the entire inn. At that time of night, even the shadowlands could rest. The only disturbance was a Harper on patrol and the distant clagging of Dammon working on his latest requisition. It should have made watching the night sky easy, but Declan couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering.

Wyll’s gaze transfixes on the few constellations they could see from such a dark place. They search earnestly among the stars as if they could find something remarkable hidden within them. “Reminds me of home,” he says after a moment, “That’s one thing about the night sky. It never changes, no matter how far you stray.” He leans against the railing, a soft sigh leaving his lips. “They’re beautiful.”

“I’ve seen better.” Declan uses the compliment to pull Wyll from his thoughts. He was banished from Baldur’s Gate when he was seventeen, and with the city on the other side of the shadows, he was likely missing the place that raised him.

Wyll turns to regard him, and again, their eyes meet. The spark catches into a flame, hot to the touch and impossible to ignore. There’s a breathtaking moment where Wyll moves closer, his soft gaze flickering down to the curve of Declan’s lips.

The kiss kickstarts something in them, and the flame bursts into a blazing fire as the faintest brush of their lips turns into a display of tongue and teeth. Wyll folds the half-elf within his embrace, threatening to loosen the robe around his shoulders as his hands trail down the length of his spine. Declan busied his hand at the base of Wyll’s skull, brushing his fingers upwards and through the braids until he found curling horns to hold. Wyll lurches at this touch, his breath catching in his throat.

There’s an entire shift in Wyll’s body language as Declan drags an experimental touch along the base of the horn. Wyll’s strangled breath stutters into a soft groan, one rewarded with another kiss to muffle the sound as the patrol passes by beneath them. The threat of an audience has Wyll pulling away again, but only far enough for their foreheads to rest against one another. “See,” he puffs out, “more than a kiss.”

“I got carried away,” Declan murmurs, his touch lingering in his partner’s hair unapologetically. “Stay with me tonight.”

“Declan…”

“I promise to be on my best behavior.” Declan doesn’t make his case more convincing when he steals another kiss. “I was finding it hard to sleep, too, but I always feel safer with you. Please, Wyll, if you leave me now, I’ll be up all night thinking of you.”

The plea enriches Declan’s words, and to his credit, Wyll gives into a night of sharing a bed. “Well, how can I argue with that? Come on, love.” He gave a delicate pull to the robe Declan wore, tugging the elf into the four-cornered room that smelt like soap and burning candles, a hush falling over the pair as the balcony doors closed, and they found solace in a shared bed.

#baldurs gate #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #wyll ravengard #tav x wyll #alfira #declan Davenport #last light inn

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halla-hunts-the-wolf · 5 months

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The Last Light Inn

- The First Night -

Declan finally reaches the Last Light Inn, but his hardships are far from over.

Pairings: Male Tav / Wyll mentioned

Warnings: Character Death, Mentions of Gore

There was something about traveling through land shrouded in shadows that made chills creep down their spines and left their hair standing on end. The darkness could leave a searing pain lashing across one’s skin, turning their sound mind into something akin to madness. Declan Davenport had felt his paranoia creeping in within the first hour, and although his eyesight was poor, even his night vision couldn’t console him as they traversed through those haunted lands.

He was glad when Kar’niss fell to a heap on the ground. His spiraling legs curled in on themselves as his thorax gushed with warm blood. Declan shook the ichor from his boots, doing his best to ignore as the Drider’s beady black eyes stared up at him, void of life. Fortunately, he couldn’t dwell for long as the light from the lantern and the Harpers disappeared around the bend.

Jaheira appeared to be a force to reckon with, and Declan liked her. She reminded him of his mother, who was likely waiting to hear from him at their homestead on the outskirts of Baldurs Gate. The two women shared the same no-nonsense attitude and a sense of responsibility that was hard to find when the entire world continued to fall apart. They had found tiefling bodies on the way to the Inn. Declan had felt particularly ill to see them. Gale and Wyll had the decency to stop their group for a while. To their credit, they had tried their best to soothe the tears brewing in the corner of his eyes.

Halsin had done his best, parting the dirt and covering their graves in withering grass, providing them a proper resting place under the worst circumstances. It was easier to continue the journey with their friends’ corpses out of sight, but guilt gnawed at each of them. The tieflings may not have survived in the Emerald Grove, but Declan and the others had sent them towards what they assumed would be an easy trip to Baulders Gate.

Mol was the first friendly face they saw at the Inn. The young entrepreneur vouched for their group, and Declan’s heart soared upon seeing her. She was a little shit, that much he knew, but if she had survived the journey, then so could the other tiefling children that she protected. Declan tried to follow her, eager to see for himself, but then he felt the faint shove of Karlach’s sword pommel as she motioned toward the stables.

“Hey, there’s Dammon! Let’s go say hi!” The woman’s relief was infectious, so their group shuffled off in different directions. Declan was vaguely aware of Wyll’s touch skimming across his shoulder, a silent farewell before he inserted himself in the effort to build barricades for the Inn.

Once Halsin and Jaheira had turned their backs to discuss the wellbeing of the Inn’s refugees, Gale and Astarion made themselves scarce to search the grounds for supplies. Wherever Shadowheart and Lae’Zel turned up could be anyone’s guess, but Declan found himself not caring, as long as they didn’t try killing one another along the way.

His heart was still heavy once he finished speaking with Dammon, glad Karlach would have a temporary solution to her infernal engine but weary of the bad news they hadn’t yet heard. He finally earned some reprieve when he stepped into the Inn, finding a familiar face at one of the tables.

“Alfira?” His legs didn’t feel so heavy as he crossed the crowded tavern, inching himself through a crowd of Harpers and Flaming Fists to reach his twin flame. “By the Gods, am I happy to see you!”

The bard had been staring down into her mug of some piss-smelling ale, her golden eyes murky with all she’d had to endure in the passing weeks. However, the sound of Declan’s soft-spoken voice cutting through the tavern’s atmosphere of doom and gloom has her rising from her seat.

“Declan!” She cheered, the smile on her face nearly as infectious as Karlach’s, and Declan embraced her before he could say a proper hello. “I bet you didn’t expect to find me among the survivors, huh?”

“You’ve got the luck of a bard, my dear.” Decan’s words accompany a watery laugh, and he does his best to keep his exhaustion and remorse from creeping into his voice. “I’m so sorry, Ira. Had I known this would happen, I wouldn’t have sent you here alone. We found some others on the way here, and the rest…”

“The Absolute’s forces took them,” Alfira confirmed his worst fears before motioning him to sit across from her. She’s the first one to acknowledge the hitch in his shoulders and the sweat on his brow, offering him her drink to dull the aches he was feeling. “Jaihera has considered storming Moonrise to save them, but the Absolute’s forces are stronger than her own, and the fight seems like a risk.”

“I’ll bring them back,” Declan vows breathlessly, his words a rush after guzzling the contents within her tankard.

“Ever the hero, aren’t you?”

“Until it kills me.”

There’s a sadness in the way Alfira shakes her head. Her lilac lips pull into a frown, and her glowing eyes haze with the painful acknowledgment of someone else’s self-sacrifice. She’d written a song about Declan after he helped defeat the Goblins, but her drunken slew of words at the time hadn’t included how much he cared about other people. The song captured his explosive spells, charming wit, and wealth of knowledge. It was an ode to the clever way he’d destroyed the Absolute’s supporters. The tale of how he’d played a song to distract the guards, poisoned their barrels of alcohol and recruited their feeding spiders into an uprising against their captors.

Many of the tieflings knew Declan as the hero from the tale she wove, but Alfira knew him as the adventurous farm boy way out of his depth. They were the same, and because pain recognized pain, Declan knew he was about to receive a lashing for taking on more responsibility than he could handle.

He’s saved from the lecture as a hoard of children raced to their table. Mirkon leads the rest of the pack. His dark curls and beaming smile remain intact, even after everything he’d endured. “Mr. Wyll told us you were here!”

Mirkon was by far the sweetest child that the tieflings had to offer. Although he worked for Mol and conned others to earn his keep, he maintained a kind and virtuous heart. Declan was grateful he’d saved him from the harpies at the lake shore. Mirkon had written him a story to say thank you, and Declan kept it tucked within the cover of his favorite book.

“Mirkon, I’m so pleased to see you.” He reaches out to ruffle the boy’s curly hair but pulls back once he notices how matted it has become during their journey. He made a mental note to ask for a hairbrush before regarding the others, “Ide, Meli, Umi!”

Each child waves to him in return, unable to contain their surprise that he bothered to remember their names. “Have you eaten? I’m sure I could get some of these patrons out of the way.”

“We’ve had our meals,” Mirkon reassured him before brushing his hand over Declan’s newest outfit of fine green leather. “You look fancier than before.”

“That’s because I’m a tried and true adventurer now.”

“That so?” Ide tutted back. “You might see Mattis before you leave. We could have something in our wares to complete your look.”

“Well, I couldn’t leave the Inn without stopping to trade with my favorite merchants, could I?”

The children shared giggles and knowing looks. Their sharp teeth betrayed their keen smiles. Mol loved it when they brought in customers, but Declan wasn’t someone they tried to con. He was one of the few people who always played along and paid more than their wares were worth.

“Hey!” A voice cuts through all the noise, and Declan turns in his seat to find Rolan, one of the more battle-ready Teiflings, as he waves his tankard in the children’s direction. “Hasn’t Jaheira placed you in charge of serving our sorry lot?”

Mirkon and the others offered Declan a quick goodbye before returning to the bar, and Alfria took up the silence once they were gone. “Rolan’s the reason the rest of us are alive.”

Declan turned back to her with a grimace. “His siblings?”

“He was defending the children when the Cultists called for reinforcements. Cal and Lei were some of the ones taken. He hasn’t been the same since. He’s a hardass but did his best to keep us together on our journeys. I feel for him.”

The guilt washed over him with a renewed vigor. When Declan first arrived in the Druid’s grove, he overheard Rolan trying to convince his siblings to flee while they could. He convinced Rolan to stay in the grove, but if he hadn’t intervened, perhaps the siblings would still be together.

Declan reached across the table to lace his hand over Alfira’s. She met his gaze, and, for a moment, they shared in quiet resolve and a like mind. Declan couldn’t read her mind like he could with the other Mindflayer victims, but he could still tell what she was thinking. The Tieflings stood a chance at survival now that everyone was together again.

Declan leaves her to begin strumming her lute, offering a soft instrument to overtake the tavern. He wouldn’t hesitate to join her on most occasions, but his feet carried him toward the bar as she began humming the opening chords to Old Time Battles.

“If it isn’t the hero of the Grove.” Rolan’s voice comes as a drunken drawl, and it’s clear by the clench of his jaw that he has no intention of offering Declan his thanks. Declan couldn’t blame him.

“I heard about Lia and Cal, I’m sorry-”

“Save it. They would still be here if it weren’t for you.”

Declan flinched, his dirtied boots squeaking against the floor as he jeered backward a step. “I know.” He finds his voice. “I’ll get them back.”

Rolan growls. The noise starts in his chest and reverberates to stir the ale at the bottom of his cup. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” From over Rolan’s shoulder, Declan notices Ide mime a drink, or two, or four, giving the impression that Rolan had been at the bar for some time.

“I deserve that.” Declan concedes, saddling up to the bar to stand at Rolan's side. “But I say this with sincerity. I’ll go to Moonrise Towers and do everything I can. No risk is too great.”

Rolan scowled, twisting within his bar stool to glare at the half-elf before him. Declan’s freckled skin caked in grim, his light armor accosted by blood and other bodily fluids he dared not name. He was far from the awkward and bumbling young man who had stumbled into the Emerald Grove a few months ago. “No one asked you to play hero, least of all me.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“And look where that’s got us! My siblings are gone, children are dead, and the rest of us will never make it to Baldurs Gate with so few of us left.”

It takes everything in Declan not to snap back or shut down. He was usually cheery, ready to laugh or smile at any moment, but he’d had one hell of a day. “I’ll leave you to your drink.”

Declan retreated from the bar, managing another mild-mannered smile as he passed the children to approach Alfira once more. She was still strumming her lute but appraised him with a sympathetic gaze. “Didn’t go well, I take it?”

“Not in the slightest.”

She gestured to his back, where the Spider’s Lyre he retrieved from the Goblin Camp rested. “The mood in this place is pretty drab. I think everyone could use a pick me up, don’t you?”

“I think you’ve read my mind.” Declan could put on a smile for a performance, and in the passing weeks, he’d learned how to fake things until he made it. His boisterous confidence was often a facade that made those around him feel safe, and he would perform again if it meant making the tavern of weary patrons feel secure for a night.

He pulled the lyre from his back, and before he knew it, he and Alfira were standing on the table they’d been having a heart-to-heart at not a few moments before. Decan taps his foot in time with the music as they plunge into Bard Dance. His fingers ached from countless hours of spellcasting, but he ignored the pain in favor of the music.

It doesn’t take long for a crowd to gather. Soldiers and refugees alike struggle to box the two performers in, gradually beginning to jeer and sing along to the music. Some people whistled, others clapped, but Declan could tell that the spirits in the tavern had lifted considerably.

Declan finds his foul mood lifting with them, and as his traveling companions gradually find their way into the Inn for the night, the half-elf can’t help raising his voice to be heard over the crowd, serenading his friends as he did every night beside the fire.

So enthralled by the song, he wouldn’t notice Wyll come through the entrance. There wasn’t any room for the warlock to break through the crowd, so he leaned against the doorframe instead. His head leans against the wood, his brown eyes surveying the performance before him.

As if sensing a fetching pair of eyes on him, Declan turns away from Alfira. He finds Wyll watching, his silhouette captured by the lamplight just outside the door. Wyll smiles, its Genuity and warmth a welcomed sight after the day’s cruelty.

When the song finishes, Declan swears he can hear Wyll’s clapping above the rest, and he bows just for him. The moment is sweet and all-encompassing, leaving the pair enraptured until someone in the crowd screams for an encore, and the music begins again.

#baldurs gate #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate fanfiction #tav #tav x wyll #alfira #bg3 original character #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #baldurs gate spoilers #wyll ravengard

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