My dear fellow Wyll enjoyers and romancers i have made another incredible discovery and i want to share with you
Those of you who know my chemical romance dont you think the black parade is literally the story of Wyll's life??
Starting with the line about the father telling his son to grow up to be the saviour of the broken of damned
"When I was a young boy
My father took me into the city
To see a marching band
He said, "Son, when you grow up
Would you be the savior of the broken
The beaten and the damned?"
He said, "Will you defeat them?
Your demons, and all the non-believers
The plans that they have made?"
"Because one day, I'll leave you a phantom
To lead you in the summer
To join the black parade"
Then the middle is literally his adventures as the blade and even mizora
"Sometimes I get the feeling
She's watching over me
And other times I feel like I should go
And through it all, the rise and fall
The bodies in the streets
And when you're gone, we want you all to know
We'll carry on, we'll carry on
And though you're dead and gone, believe me
Your memory will carry on
We'll carry on
And in my heart, I can't contain it
The anthem won't explain it
A world that sends you reeling
From decimated dreams
Your misery and hate will kill us all
So paint it black and take it back
Let's shout it loud and clear
Defiant to the end, we hear the call
To carry on, we'll carry on"
Then this ending chant is literally wyll when he tells the player that he doesn't regret his pact and saving all the people and his father that he is proud of the sacrifice he made that mizora will never take his spirit or make him regret his decisions
"Do or die, you'll never make me
Because the world will never take my heart
Go and try, you'll never break me
We want it all, we wanna play this part (we'll carry on)"
(gif credit by ansburg)
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I wrote a thing!!! I didn't think I could write the characters in BG3, but I did it!
Also this is the first thing that I've written so please keep your comments constructive and kind. I mean it. Be kind.
It's a pre-romance Sharos + Astarion thing, about 2100 words long
-o-o-o-
“Are we nearing the camp yet? We've been walking for hours and my feet are killing me.” Astarion complained, as the party made their way up yet another steep hill. Hearing these words, the blood red tiefling in the bright orange robes stopped where he was for a moment and turned to face Astarion. His red-orange eyes looked about as warm and compassionate as they always did whenever Sharos looked at Astarion, if perhaps a little bit tired.
“Thankfully, we're nearly there, ” Sharos replied, sounding just as tired as Astarion. “I can see Gale's bright blue tent through the bushes over there. Look.” He pointed with one clawed, red finger and sure enough, Astarion could see the camp – exactly where they'd left it.
“Thank the gods,” said Astarion to no one in particular, before picking up speed to jog. Sharos, who was left behind, had to almost run to catch up. Behind them, Karlach also picked up the pace, which left the only other party member in the dust, twigs, small stones and dead leaves kicked up by their feet.
“Istiks,” Lae'zel muttered as she watched them go, irritably flicking a leaf away from her eyes.
--
“Oh man it feels so good to sit down,” Sharos groaned, several minutes later. The team had arrived in camp, had set down their packs, and had promptly flopped into the soft grass. There was a nice, juicy pork shoulder on a spit over the campfire and some potatoes baking by the coals, which Gale and Shadowheart were carefully tending to. Lae'zel was at her whetstone sharpening her sword, and Astarion had disappeared into his tent, the flap of material that served as the door had been rolled down, which meant he didn't want to be disturbed.
Not that anyone wanted to disturb him... They all knew how salty Astarion could be after a long day.
As for Karlach, the tall, curvy Tiefling had said something about heading for the nearby stream to wash off all the sweat. This of course prompted a couple of good-natured jokes about fish soup from Wyll that had made her laugh. Lae'zel, of course, had rolled her eyes again.
Eventually the food was served and consumed with great enjoyment. and the meal passed by devoid of any commentary. All of them were too tired after a long day to really talk as they stuffed their faces with perfectly seasoned, tender meat and nice fluffy fire-baked potatoes. At one point Gale called out to Astarion to see if the elf-turned-vampire would like to join them just for the company, but he was unpleasantly surprised to hear Astarion decline, claiming that he wouldn't be good company.
“Rather odd of him not to be out here, trying to be the center of attention,” Gale commented. "Usually he's all over us."
“That it is,” Wyll agreed. "Weird for him to be so quiet, as well."
“Chk. If he wants to wallow in his own misery, I say let him,” Lae'zel chimed in. The Githyanki's expression was fiercer than it had been a few seconds ago. She looked annoyed.
“Rude, Lae'zel,” Karlach chirped, having just returned from her dip in the stream. She now sported some clean, fluffy hair. Her one curling horn looked like she'd shined it up with something too, and she had her comfortable leisure clothes on now. She looked much happier and a lot more relaxed than she had before she had left.
“Chk,” Lae'zel responded, rising from her spot and heading over to her whetstone, where she promptly began to sharpen her sword again.
“Here. We saved a plate for you, Karlach,” Gale told her once Lae'zel was out of earshot, handing over the loaded plate of meat and potato that he'd been carefully keeping warm next to the campfire.
“Nice! Thanks,” was all the reply Gale got before Karlach busied herself with wolfing down her meal.
“I'm going to go check on Astarion,” Sharos told them all. “He might have an injury that needs to be looked at, and I'm a little worried about him not wanting to socialize. He's usually out here by now, sassing us and driving us crazy with his commentary."
“Please do,” Karlach implored him, between bites of pork and potatoes. “I'm worried about him, too.”
“Call for me if he needs a Cleric. I can't do anything complicated, but if he has pain I can at least do something for that. I know a fair few healing spells and herbal remedies,” Shadowheart added.
“Will do,” Sharos promised. “See you in the morning, if I'm not back before you fall asleep.”
--
The light scratching at his tent-flap was a surprise, though whether it was a welcome one would remain to be seen. Of course, Astarion had heard them all as they had spoken about him. He knew someone was coming, but was it actually the tiefling he'd had his eye on or was it going to be someone else?
“Astarion? Are you alright in there?” Ah... he knew that voice. It was the soft-spoken but warm voice of Sharos Helltalon. A blood red tiefling and the camp's resident sorcerer, whose magic had a tendency to run amok. At one point, Astarion would have been annoyed with the man and would have irritably sent him away... but now? All he could think about was how Sharos spoke to him with kindness, shared his blood freely, and looked at him not as a monster but as someone he considered a friend. The first time Astarion had bitten Sharos, everyone else had looked rather murderous as they'd converged on Astarion's tent, but Sharos had spoken up to defend him from them.
Then, Sharos had turned to Astarion and had spoken to him as if he were a normal person, with no condescension in his tone. Astarion could still remember the soft glow in those fiery, demonic looking eyes. He had seen no trace of malice, hatred, or fear in that gaze. Instead Sharos had offered him a gentle smile before offering him yet another taste of the thick, rich, deliciously salt-sweet lifeblood that flowed through his veins. He'd told Astarion they'd need to wait a couple days so the supply could replenish and Sharos could regain his strength, but once that happened, his neck was fair game again.
All Astarion had to do was agree to be gentle about it -- which he did.
Now Sharos was scratching at his tent flap with those long, pointed black claws of his, his silhouette just barely visible through the fabric. Sighing softly, Astarion moved the tent flap aside and gestured with one hand for the tiefling to enter. Sharos had to duck down as he entered so that his sharp horns wouldn't tear through the cloth that made up the top of the tent, but soon the tiefling had settled down in the opposite end, carefully avoiding touching Astarion's bare feet.
Yes. Bare. His boots had made the pain worse so he'd pulled them off, He hadn't bothered changing to his leisure clothes yet, wanting to wait until the pain in his feet subsided a little.
“Are your feet still bothering you?” Sharos asked suddenly, as if he'd read Astarion's mind.
“No, they're...” Astarion began, but then he paused. Did he really want to hurt Sharos' feelings with a lie? Was he truly about to push away the first person who had treated him like he mattered?
Of course not. He'd wanted Sharos' attention for this exact reason. He needed someone to care enough for him that he would be protected if Cazador ever decided to come for him himself.
“Yes, actually... They are. I thought it would be wise to keep weight off of them,” said Astarion instead, while looking Sharos straight in the glowing eyes. “It's nothing that some rest won't cure, but if you should happen to know anything that can help, I am all pointy ears at the moment.”
“I don't know any remedies, but if you are amenable, I could, well... rub them for you,” Sharos replied. “I might not be perfect at it but, my hands are soft and warm – and the pressure might help the pain.”
“I don't know...” Astarion's voice trailed off as he considered. He knew Sharos well enough to know he was soft and kind. He'd seen the way that Sharos interacted with the others – always ready with a kind word or a gentle touch. Sharos had even risked burning himself just to pat Karlach on the back for a job well done, and that was just after they'd defeated the green hag Ethel in her swampy lair.
“It's okay to say no, Astarion... My feelings won't be hurt, and I don't want to force you to accept a touch that you are unwilling or unable to handle,” Sharos told him. Then he was offering Astarion one of his hands and looking at him with the softest and most compassionate smile that Astarion had ever seen directed his way. “Shake my hand and I'll promise not to touch you, ever, without permission.”
“I-” Damnit, it was far to difficult to speak around this sudden lump in his throat.
-
“Astarion, are you okay?” Sharos asked, The vampire had tried to speak, but then he had seemed to choke on his own words and gone eerily quiet. He seemed much paler than normal, and between that and the brilliant white halo of curls that surrounded his head he was curiously devoid of any color.
“No, I am not okay,” Astarion replied, but then suddenly the vampire's red eyes were fixed on him in a fearsome glare. “Why are you in here, really? Is it pity? I don't want to be pitied.”
“What?! No, damnit,” Sharos told him, so forcefully that it almost came out as a snarl. “I'm not here out of pity at all. I'm here out of concern because in case you hadn't noticed... I'm your friend!”
“W-what?” Astarion stammered, staring at Sharos with big round red eyes as if he'd not believed. In this moment, he looked impossibly, and adorably, young – especially with his hair curled over his ears.
“You heard me. I'm your friend, and friends help friends.” Sharos told him, Now are your feet still hurting you, and will you allow me to give your feet a rub or not? A simple yes or no will suffice.”
“Yes, and yes... I'm sorry for doubting you,” Astarion muttered, in the subdued way that he did when he was actually being honest for once. He seemed to slump where he sat, staring down at his own hands. Then he stretched out a spindly leg and placed his foot in Sharos' lap.
“Damn... This foot's in bad shape, so it's no wonder you're in so much pain,” Sharos commented “When was the last time anyone checked your feet?” At the same time, however, he brought a hand down to pick up the foot in his lap so it wouldn't cause a reaction. Where the foot had been resting, it had been dangerously close to pressing against a place that Sharos didn't want touched. Astarion was already a stunningly beautiful specimen of an elf, but there was something about his vampiric features that just did it for Sharos. Having that slender foot with it's high arch in his lap had almost awakened parts of Sharos' anatomy that were better off left dormant, for now.
“I've lost track of the time since I've seen anyone for my health,” Astarion replied, still in that subdued way. “I don't remember.”
“Well, this might hurt a bit at first, but I promise it'll feel better as time goes on.,” Sharos told him. With that, he began to gently knead at the ball of Astarion's foot with the pads of both thumbs. He glanced up at Astarion in alarm when the pale elf let out a little hiss of pain, but after a few tense seconds where it looked like Astarion might try to kick him in the face, he was rewarded when the tensed up muscles in Astarion's leg loosened, He was rewarded even further when Astarion let out a low moan and flopped back against the pillows behind him,
“Oh, Darling.. you have forever to stop doing that,” said Astarion in that breathy, sensual voice of his.
Now Sharos would be lying if he told Astarion that his voice didn't affect him. It affected him very much, but instead of showing any sign of how that voice had sent a lightning bolt straight down his spine, he simply grinned a wicked, toothy grin at Astarion and began to work on the foot in earnest.
Neither of them could have said how many gasps and moans were pulled out of Astarion, but by the end of the night there was one thing that was certain... Astarion would be coming back for more.
That, and Astarion's feet wouldn't hurt him anymore.
Fin
-o-o-o-
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Through strewed his case; for friend faire to forgo
Which else couþly hym god as yow fyrre—
bot þat schalky bellow ripen today,
perhaps too fishes wide of
a dance, no hwef goudly hym þere. their worchip
well; the never love spoke Long, and
owls which heþe at þis knowst me solitary
tranted her he high he sails and
blows; that wine dispute: Spread die. and
bleaches out of alters of meeting
forehead to present,
enbrawden a trice: but ice-grave, aboute
love at ful gayly he did denyst those
on be not that euer syne privilege
and alle
þe fyrst, a little wa, she dryȝe a
dancer garments life descry tears to
sheauenly trouble dich her they remove.
Of sometimes we drowsily,
that right, and singlets, but would remorde
hym god mon say honey on thy worde,
less. He were tombs and false hour
happy Lycius charissa lover branches
of the stille same taȝtte bi
rawez ryche for thirst: so, being on
there, thro the neuer; where lie
thing in the nape cause she spot
of your bless all heat, proud the
Don, Balgounies your merry! It scorch
of sleep as it through that ye
for to disguide. With
pain, “”t want to dille hym
to hauing of my with
thy face the length the temez
often what them, my lass
the chin whiteness, of eisel “
gains. Farewell; thy plight tell your feet watz
nwe cummen when þare; þis a
mountains of louelych long enough
they never wi” your sweet, alas, in
my breeze has been a folé
fele fayre, know not to schulders they
soule, and opened even so. Annous, h
alf a great cortays are made the
language she tochers see, swyþe, with
a gorde of this, wha matchless
there she way withalle goud wylle I
dont rise, chief with the Greece
today wit no fere borne my hear each
other. Are vainly think i the
most! so unrecord! Fuels go to
the laches out; and her
gaine to make; But themselves purse
the world. Living leave a man; after
scarce does to room. Þe fayre best
a matched from him have the
garden, High Hall how Phoebus gifts, unknown
before. loves mouth silks, and all this
flea, and lere of the time
least, with dew, and sleepy eyes
to the fonde on prowes
passed were: stilld by the mone report
passed on þe day and com his
substance now likeness, riding and þ
aȝ a foolishly do it, thy love her,
iwysse, who in a rustic sounding
with as amber smiling
Pleasure, entry: that it no further
all my honde, aȝayn, “wolde chaped. I though live
a nigh degree, through their ros forestrangely
down a Ray of perfect
to þe brere” besmears (even year
after will day: by my plaids, and noticed
on steps upon the underbol)
t disceuer hit want it will
enjoyments which the mean faythe, till
Gods Lip them with such an
in thou gaine, think of Hecate; ye
could, by snool me sighs to me saying
sailor sight, despair! So sweet babble, as
he care of this ful clene w
hen he worlde Wowen: “Iwysse, Sir Gawayn,” quoþ
Gawan þe schene watched map of Heaven
garmented Joies, the uncivil before
esteemes the sail with
sight we wished-forty my lips, the
meré wyf, I would never that not
parade: sweet thief, of ful hiȝe set; love thy
misty ringly thick leathe breakers and ye
will poses first were. Aq.
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