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normal-thoughts-official · 1 month

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here is the thing

when i started playing bg3, i didn't expect wyll to be so devoted to karlach. her devotion to him is a given; the guy risked his life to save her when they had literally just met. of course he matters so much to her

but wyll matched that same devotion right back, as if she had been the one to save him, even though karlach never really got the chance to do anything of that magnitude back for him

but then i think about it

mizora's punishment plays directly into wyll's worst trauma. to be suddenly branded as demonic, so people will always look at him and see that first. like his father did. like the whole city, everyone who ever knew him, did. no amount of good deeds will ever be enough to compensate for his association with evil; his soul will burn in hell and he will not be welcome anywhere because he's a greedy warlock who made his choice. i don't know if that is actually true, but he certainly thinks it to be, if anything, from his assumption that the people of the grove (whose lives he had just saved, and who had known him for at least a few days as nothing but a kind hero who looked out for them) would be unable to look past his appearance and wouldn't want him near them

and mind, mizora clearly wants wyll to stay isolated. why else would she forbid him from explaining the circumstances of his pact? what could she possibly gain from that, other than making sure he can never dispel the notion that he made a deal with the devil simply for power?

so it makes sense that that, more even than the non-consensual body modification, was the punishment. to put his warlock status on display, so that people would immediately be offput by him - and even if they aren't, he will be sure they are

his own father couldn't stand to look at him, and that was back when he had just lost an eye

but the first thing karlach tells him is this:

"Thank you for seeing me for who I really am. And... I think I can see you for who you really are, too. A hero"

obviously, it's common sense for her to see him like this after he just saved her life at great, and at the time unknown, personal cost. but it would also have been common sense for his father to know that the son he himself raised and who's nothing if not a paragon of kindness and duty wouldn't just decide to sell his soul for power out of the blue one fine day. or that, if he keeps trying to say something but can't, then there might be more to the story. for fuck's sake, he lost an eye. and yet, ulder didn't. wyll's association with the demonic was enough to dispel everything about his personhood, his values, and his actions. and now said association was branded, quite literally, on his forehead

and karlach's suffered so much at the hands of devils. just like with the other tieflings, he expects her to be unsettled by him, at the very least

but then she says that she looks at him and sees only a hero. the man who saved her. the man who cared enough to listen and do what was right. the man who sacrificed something for her, who had to make a choice no one should have to make

he had saved an entire city when he first made the pact, and yet not one soul in it was able to see that. see him

but karlach did

karlach does

and not only that. not only is she the first person in perhaps his whole life to put more weight to wyll's personhood and actions than to mizora's; but she knew he needed to hear that. she says it like someone who's trying to offer a comfort in a hopeless situation, which is exactly what she's doing. she knows that he is afraid of being rejected

and of course she does

she is the one who comes closest to fully understanding him.

can you imagine being wyll and seeing karlach's story play out in dizzyingly rapid succession in your mind? had a pretty good, happy life, then in the span of one day everything changed when she was associated with the demonic. she lost everything and everyone she ever had. from then on, she only knew one thing: to fight. no rest and no friends and no breaks, just endless, senseless fighting. her body was changed against her will. she hadn't been touched in a positive way in ten years. even fucking mizora was there

that's his story, too

sure, he might not have been literally unable to touch people, but neither was karlach when she was in hell. he's been completely alone except for mizora for the last seven years, at least in the ways that matter. nothing in his life was constant, except for the fighting and the humiliation at a devil's hand. and the loneliness

of course he thinks it's a trick. it hits too close to home

and of course he can't help but listen anyway. because wyll is nothing if not compassionate, and he's just watched a tldr of his own pain inflicted on someone else

so when karlach says that she still sees him as himself first?

he is reminded that she gets it

for the first time in seven years, he is not alone, and he is understood

of course he would do anything to keep her in his life, just as she would

in a way, she did save him, too.

(slightly late meta submission for @thekindredcollective's wyllstravaganza2024, day 19: bond)

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #wyllstravaganza2024 #wyll ravengard #karlach cliffgate #wyllach #although it's still true from a platonic perspective honestly. that's one of the things i love about them #whether you see it as romantic or platonic changes nothing #meta #overflowing trashcan

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dishsaop · 1 month

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Day 18, Judgement, for Wyllstravaganza2024! Please open image for better quality, etc etc.

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elemit · 1 month

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[something unholy]

#bg3 fanart #wyllstravaganza2024 #wyll ravengard #my art #bg3 wyll #wyll month #worship

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assaahashi · 1 month

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I wanted to make something specifically for Wyllstravaganza but I'm not into making dark and sad stuff so it's my best try on "transformation"

And, of course, ratstarion is cute. So. Yeah. Hello rat kindom, you're really inspiring but I'm a dummy :D

#wyllstarion #astarion #bg3 #wyll ravengard #wyll #bloodblade #bloodpact #wyll x astarion #bg3 wyll #wyllstravaganza2024

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caspercryptid · 2 months

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Fellow disabled here.

What are your thoughts on Wylls horns or other parts of the transformation being painful, either acute from being new, or chronic as the days go on? Perhaps Gale or Karlach have some words of wisdom? Gale with the chronic pain of the orb, Karlach with a broken horn (is that painful too?) and an engine burning her up from the inside. Love to hear some fluff of folks quietly showing up for Wyll. ❤️

Hey sorry this took me a minute! I'm going to hit this one for Day 1 of @thekindredcollective's Wyll month, {Perception}

Sorry no karlach i don't know her too well yet, I'll have to write her another time.

-----

Wyll’s neck hurts.

It shouldn’t be the most important thing about all of this. It shouldn’t matter at all. There are so many more serious concerns with the way he looks, the way he feels, what’s been done to him. But they’re easy to rationalize and accept. The way he’s seen is, after all, out of his hands. There’s so little he can do about any of this. He’s yielding. He’s always, his entire life, done as he felt he had to. There was little choice in the matter. Offered the chance to do it all over, he wouldn’t do a single thing differently. There is no choice. He’s surrendered to the tide, knelt to it, sworn his fealty to his own soul and his own moral code.

But still. His neck hurts.

He can’t sleep.

That’s the worst of it, he thinks, laying back on his pillow and looking up at the sky above them. During the day the ache is easy. He has others, and more immediate problems, and when he’s run through and Shadowheart heals him all the pain fades and he almost forgets that the way that ache collects at the top of his spine is the weight of his own head and not another injury from a lifetime of collecting them.

He has other aches and pains. He’s young, he knows, objectively. The others are older than he is. When he was really young and reckless he used to jump off the banister of the stairs, impatient to get to the ground, never able to wait to get...wherever it was he was going. Always somewhere, in those days. Maybe now, too, always rushing to some new adventure. But sometimes when he was young he would be caught by the waist- his father, or a nanny, always someone bright-eyed and laughing and warning him one day his knees and ankles wouldn’t bear his weight the same way. I wish I was young like you.

He understands now. Still young, but his body bears the weight of the distance he’s traveled. Aching knees, sore shoulders, tendons stretched and stretched and not feeling quite as flexible as they’d been when he was younger and vaulting over tables. But those aches wandered and stayed dull, were easy enough to ease with rest or getting off his feet, not kneeling quite so much. This ache sat. Squatted on his shoulders like he was carrying the physical stone weight of the devil on his shoulder. Which, well. He supposed he was.

It was hard not to think about it when he had nothing else to think about. The night was almost totally silent, only him and his pain and the faint hooting of an owl and— footsteps.

He tries to twist his head, bumps a horn into the ground and winces as pain flares through his neck again, bright and hot enough that he has to close his eyes against it. He holds still, just trying to breathe and will it away, when there’s a hand against the bare skin of his neck, cool with something spread over the fingers, a little slick and a little resistant, spreading on his neck with the calm precision of jam under a knife. He opens his eyes again, holding still, confused, only to see....Gale.

He hadn’t expected Gale. The way the pain starts to ebb under a faint warming sensation, shadowheart seemed a more likely guess. But It’s gale, in his camp clothes and holding a jar, calm and rubbing a salve into his neck. Wyll tries to voice a question, but Gale looks embarrassed and answers before he can ask it.

“I apologize,” he says, quietly, “You’ve been rubbing at your neck and I could tell you weren’t asleep. That must hurt.”

“...It did,” Wyll admits, only a bit reluctant. As much as he hates to be a bother, embarrassing Gale wouldn’t be polite. And it’s helping- it’s not so much immediately soothing the pain as spreading an odd hot-and-cold sensation across his skin that seems to loosen up the muscles.

“I... think you may need to change your posture,” Gale says, recovering a bit. “In the long term, perhaps. Karlach holds herself differently than you do, and I think on the whole tieflings balance...differently. To accommodate the weight. I believe it would be easier for you to adjust if you hadn’t been trained with a blade, a bit ironically, because you’re so careful about your posture that I rather suspect that you’ve overwritten your natural inclination to stand in a way that makes up for any weight. Of course there’s probably very few cases where this has happened to draw from, it would be an interesting area of research, there have to be other people who’ve perhaps sprouted wings. Perhaps Halsin holds himself differently when he transforms. Not that you’re an animal, of course, that may be an unflattering comparison—”

Wyll can’t help but laugh a little. “I’m not offended,” he assures him. “It’s alright. You’ve probably got the right idea about Karlach. And Halsin is trained as well, he might be conscious about adjusting his posture. Perhaps he’d know a thing or two.” He pauses, weighing the question for a second, and then says— “Am I that obvious?”

“Oh, no,” Gale says, “I only noticed because I—” His hand settles over his chest, and as he does it Wyll realizes that it’s not the first time he’s seen Gale make that gesture. He’d thought it a kind of quirk of self-aggrandizing: pressing your hand to your chest does add the sort of dramatic flair that Gale tended to favor in his speech.

“—it hurts, doesn’t it?” Wyll asks. “The— thing. In your chest.”

“—terribly,” Gale admits, tone a little flat. He doesn’t quite ever sound properly downcast, always animated in some way or other. It’s odd to hear him drop some of the...gusto. From his speech. He clears his throat, as though catching himself, even without Wyll pointing it out, forcing himself to speak with a little more pep again.

“It’s not so bad. Everyone has been very kind about sharing their magic items with me.”

“Does it...stop hurting?” Wyll asks, “When you’re fed.”

“Well, no,” Gale admits, “but it’s not quite so.... Pressing. Easier to ignore.”

Wyll realizes, a little distantly, that it’s quite late. And Gale is awake too.

“—Hey,” he says. “I think I had a spare—” “No,” Gale says, waving him off, “I appreciate the thought, but it’s not... ah, the last time I went too long before feeding it. It’s sated now, but the feeling sort of...climbed up my throat. And now if I lie down my throat aches. It’ll pass, I expect, but I’m just...taking watch.”

“I see,” Wyll says, slowly. “I wonder if Shadowheart has any herbs that—” “It’s really no trouble—” “You helped me,” Wyll counters, pressing himself up, slow and careful, minding the weight. “It’s not too bad.”

“Neither was my neck.”

Gale sighs, sensing his defeat.

“—Alright. But I don’t want to wake her—” “We don’t have to,” Wyll says, “She’s one of Shar’s, she’ll probably be awake. Come on. Help me up?”

As Gale offers a hand, Wyll reflects. It was nice, not being alone. Perhaps he could remind Gale of that too.

#wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #wyllstravaganza2024 #wyll month #bladeweave #(if you squint)#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #casper's haunted fic tag #wyllstravaganza

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kittenintheden · 2 months

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Wyllstravaganza 2024: Hero, Courage, Responsibility

Rating: M Word Count: 2.1k Content: Wyll Ravengard origin story, young Wyll, pre-canon, Mizora, animal death, canon-typical violence

AO3 Link

A series of vignettes following the Blade of Frontiers from his youth through his adventures with the squad, loosely based on prompts for Wyllstravaganza 2024. There will be angst, and found family, and friendship, and fighting, and romance, and very likely smut. We begin in the Gate with a seventeen-year-old Wyll questioning his faith, or lack thereof.

“Wake up, Wyllyam Ravengard. Destiny calls. Find it at Dusthawk Hill.”

The feminine whisper echoes inside his skull as Wyll startles awake. It is late – or perhaps very early. Either way, the sky is dark, the stars still shining amid the moonless black expanse. A red glow draws his gaze, but when he looks, there’s nothing there but the cracked-open window, the night breeze making the curtains flutter.

Wyll sits up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and squints out at the Gate. They reside high above most of the populace now – a figurative position for the watchful eyes of the city’s protectors. The newness of their station still isn’t quite comfortable for either him or his father, but politics are politics. The Grand Duke has been insistent on reminding him that they are not above those they serve, even if they must stand apart by necessity. It is a lesson Wyll has taken deeply to heart.

Dusthawk Hill. Dusthawk Hill.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. The wood beneath his feet is comfortable, cool. Sturdy. Expensive. His steps are quiet as he moves to the window, looking out at the sleeping city. As he peers toward the outer reaches, he spies the towering hill in the northeast near the bank of the river, a silent giant.

There’s a light on the hillside, a flash of fire. He blinks. It’s gone in an instant, but he’s sure he saw it. Something’s amiss. He feels it down to the core of his bones.

His father left the city nearly a tenday ago, off on vital business, leaving him and the Fist to manage the Gate in his absence. A great show of faith in his young progeny. Wyll swallows. Whatever evil is afoot, his instincts tell him it’s urgent. There’s no time to rouse the guard. He already knows he will go alone.

Destiny calls.

He looses the tie keeping his mid-length braids in place and dresses quickly, pulling padded armor over top and lacing his good boots up tight. This time, he puts his enchanted rapier into his belt. It’s his best and most practiced weapon. Whatever miasma of foreboding permeates this particular evening, he’s certain it will require bloodshed.

Wyll’s own blood thrums with anxious fear and he lets himself feel it, lets it wash over him as he’s been taught, infusing every muscle. He closes his eyes and takes a series of deep breaths before pushing it aside. There’s work to be done.

Much like his father, Wyll refuses a twenty-four hour guard detail, which makes sneaking out of the manor considerably easier than it normally would be. Baldur’s Gate is eerie at this time of night, the normally bustling streets silent and the air charged with foreboding. The stables at the base of the Grand Hall’s stairs are unmanned and he makes immediately for his personal steed.

“Shhh, girl,” he whispers to the painted-coat mare when her ears flick forward on high alert. “It’s me. Sorry to disturb your rest, but I need your legs. There’ll be carrots and apples enough to make up for it, I promise you.”

The horse, Calla, whinnies softly, relaxing and lowering her head under his firm hands as he soothes her. Wyll doesn’t bother to saddle her, hopping up and riding bareback as he’d done all too often as a young boy. Calla doesn’t care for it, but she trusts him and a part of her understands his urgency. Every moment feels precious.

A few lamps flicker on in homes here and there as Wyll races by, Calla’s hooves striking sharply on the stone street. He pays them no mind, attention solely focused on his destination. The hill looms larger ahead, its normally red stone appearing near black in the night.

There, another flash of fire, gone again quick as a heartbeat.

And then Wyll’s world promptly ends.

The cobblestone road at the base of Dusthawk Hill buckles upward and neither Calla nor Wyll have the chance to change course before the horse screams and tumbles, sending them both to the hard ground. Wyll barely has the wherewithal to draw on his lifetime of horsemanship to prevent himself from being crushed underfoot. Calla screams again and gods his shoulder hurts and he’s pushing himself onto his forearms and crawling toward her and then there are figures standing round, people of the city, people who can-

A voice says, “Silence it.” There’s a bolt of violent red magic and Calla stops moving.

Wyll’s breath leaves him, his movements stilled as years of memories are compacted into a single moment. Memories of choosing his foal from the lot when he was but a foal himself, of training with her, of sunshiny walks and an occasional scuffle. A shock goes through him, hollowing him out, nearly splitting him in two.

He had promised her carrots and apples.

The figures are nearly on him before he moves for his blade. He’ll take at least one of them down with him. All of them if he can.

He doesn’t take any down, for there’s a flash of fire and the sound of a brief but violent scuffle and the street goes dark and quiet again. Wyll’s eyes remain on Calla until he notices the hand extended out for him. Numbly, he reaches to take it and is pulled to his feet by none other than the woman he’d met in Rivington.

“I’d ask if you’re all right again,” she says. “But I think we both know the answer.”

Wyll hunches over and reaches for his aching arm with his good hand. He can’t move his fingers and his breathing quickens, going shorter and shorter and Calla, oh gods, Calla-

Blue magic swirls around him and he inhales it, taking it into his heaving lungs. Immediately, his breathing slows and the world becomes clearer. He stands straighter and looks at the woman.

“Just something to calm you,” she says.

He looks around at the pair that attacked them, now charred and scattered over the ground. They wear masks and tattered black cloaks.

“What is happening?” he gasps, near sobbing. “Why are you here?”

Hells below, his shoulder hurts.

The woman shushes him as she comes in closer, placing her hands against his collarbone and his shoulder.

His breath hitches. “What are you-”

She looks into his eyes, grins, and says, “This is going to hurt.”

Wyll cries out as she wrenches his shoulder, the agony making his vision go white. There’s a pop and the pain lessens immensely. Very sore, but he can at least use it. He blinks a tear from his eye as he flexes his fingers, then focuses on the woman.

“There, there,” she says, giving him a light pat on the arm she just brutalized. “Just a little dislocated shoulder. All better now.”

He shrinks away from her touch and sends a worried look up at the hillside again before looking back to her.

“Ah, yes, that,” she says, pointing at the flickers on the hill. “That would be the Cult of the Dragon attempting to raise Tiamat at the edge of your city, I’m afraid.”

Wyll’s knee buckles and he barely catches himself. His mouth works a second before he says, “The Dragon Queen?”

The woman grins, her canines just a touch too sharp. “Oh, good, I do love a boy who reads his dragon stories. You seemed like the type.”

He stares. “Who in the Hells are you?”

“Funny you should ask,” she says. Wyll watches with his eyes going ever-wider as the woman shifts and changes, skin going blue-gray and eyes going red. Lengthy horns sprout from her brow and wings unfurl behind her back.

Wyll gasps and stumbles back, hand going to his rapier. “Devil,” he says. “Stay away from me.”

“Think you might want to hear what I have to say before you send me away,” she lilts at him, leaning forward slightly. “I’m the one who called you here, after all.”

He sees her lips move without sound and inside his head, he hears, “Wake up, Wyllyam Ravengard.”

Wyll shakes his head, but she continues speaking. Out loud, this time. “You’d be sound asleep in your cozy bed up there in the sky if I hadn’t alerted you. I’m on your side, really.”

“You serve no one but yourself.” He draws his rapier and holds it between them, taking a stance that’s more muscle memory than intentionality.

“That’s fair,” the devil sighs, folding her arms and twitching her tail behind her. “I wouldn’t be helping you for free, of course. So, first things first.” She inclines her head in a superficial bow. “I am Mizora, in service to the Archangel Zariel, and you are in need of our services.”

A baffled laugh falls from Wyll’s lips as he rocks back and forth on his feet. “Not likely. Your kind are skilled at untruths. I’ve no proof that any of what you’ve told me is true.”

Mizora holds up a finger to him and bends down toward one of the burnt bodies. Wyll’s blade follows her movement and she holds her hands out passively as she comes back to standing, a smile playing at her lips like she’s not the least bit concerned.

She holds her hand up to him, palm forward, and he sees a golden charm in her hand. There’s an etching upon it and Wyll’s hold on his blade loosens the tiniest bit when he recognizes it as one of the symbols of known organizations he and his father had to memorize. It is indeed the Cult of the Dragon.

He bites the inside of his cheek. “When is this happening? I will need to gather support if we’re to stop a ritual of this magnitude.”

The devil wrinkles her nose and wiggles as if delighted. “That’s the thing, you sweet little pup.”

There’s a tearing sound above them and Wyll’s eyes dart to find the air at the top of the hill swirling with a tight coil of dark clouds.

Mizora points to the clouds. “It’s happening right now. Pity.”

Everything within Wyll’s ribcage goes cold, a thousand thoughts and feelings pulling at him at once. Calla is gone. He will mourn her, but not yet. The Gate is in danger. His father is away and the Fist would never reach them in time. He cannot ask the people to lay down their lives. That’s his job. That’s his…

Wyll’s breath shatters out into the air. It’s him. He’s the city’s sitting protector. It has to be him.

He hasn’t had all that much life yet, but even so, he’s had enough to absorb his father’s actions and words, along with all the assurances that his mother’s sacrifice to give him life was worthy, was good. He’s absorbed it, even as he sees his father shift his gaze away from any Ilmater iconography they pass by.

Wyll grips his blade tightly, takes a deep breath, and makes for the hill past the devil. She raises her eyebrows at him and watches, amused, as he goes by.

“Plan to take on at least two Wearers of Purple and their underlings on your own before they call the Dragon Queen onto this plane, do you?” she says after him.

He pauses, gritting his teeth and struggling to keep the squall of storming emotion inside him in check. Then he turns his head and says, “What do you offer?”

Mizora beams and takes a step closer. “Power. I’ll be your patron, granting you access to my extensive well of magic. It’s yours for the taking. Use it to protect your city, if you must. Or for something more fun.”

Wyll glares at her. Another tear rolls its way down his cheek and he raises his chin, determined. “And what do you get in return?”

She comes close, reaching out a finger, and taps the tip of his nose. “Your soul, of course.”

“And what else?” he inquires further.

“Plenty else,” Mizora says. She waves her hand and an infernal contract appears in her hand, flickering at the edges like it’s burning. “But we hardly have time for particulars.”

“Fine,” Wyll says. He looks at her down the length of his nose, regal as he can. “Done.”

“I hardly had to twist your arm at all,” Mizora says, pleased. “Just that once at the beginning.” She holds out the contract and flourishes her hand to create an ethereal quill.

Wyll takes it and puts the tip to the signature line of the contract. He swallows hard.

“For the Gate,” he whispers as he signs.

His father will understand. His father would do the same. For what is a single soul in exchange for the city’s people?

#wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #wyllstravaganza2024 #wyll week #wyllweek2024 #bg3 #kitten writes #wyllstravaganza

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