#((ebony is vile too but jeeze))

[too-destiny-panda]

Wyllvember Day 5: Wyll and your Dnd party/ First Sword

A/N: Jeez, I seem to post these later and later each day. But, as long as I post them, I'm happy. This time around I meshed my current DnD party from a capmpaign I'm in with the world of Faerun, which also made this particular fic far longer than I wanted it to, but hopefully it will still be satisfactory. As always, credits to @sagscrib and @commander-yinello

When he was cast out from Baldur’s Gate by his own father, Wyll’s world crumbled before him. He knew he did the right thing and did not regret making that pact to save his home. But he also knew his father was not to blame. No matter how angry or sad he was that the Grand Duke didn’t believe him, he knew that he only worked with the information he was given, and since Mizora magically tied his tongue, none of that information painted his son in a good light. And so, since he didn’t have enough evidence to act as a father, not with a devil right there, he acted as a leader instead.

In truth, the past few weeks have been a challenge to say the least. Even if his father did his best to assimilate him with the common folk as well as the nobles, and young Wyll himself never turned his nose up at the Lower city, or even Rivington, he still spent the majority of his life withing the city walls, and that made the fact he couldn’t come back there in the foreseeable future all the more obvious as he stumbled through the wilderness with barely anything more than the clothes on his back.

That was almost two months ago. Since then, he had taken jobs as an adventurer, each successfully completed as well as a quarry or two that Mizora had him chase down. His reputation was slowly growing, and although he was still only known as a capable and honourable adventurer, he was sure that eventually he would be known enough to perhaps change his father’s mind.

On a cloudless night, he found himself in a tavern, nursing a beer as he ate dinner, waiting for the right time of night to go hunt some monster or other. He supressed a yawn. He could never get used to the nocturnal ones, no matter how hard he tried to adjust his sleep schedule in preparation. Sure, hunting something at midnight wasn’t so bad, but having to stay awake for nights on end, tracking, investigating, and readying himself was a bit much for him. He wondered how he managed to stay at parties until the wee hours of the morning back in the Gate. Maybe it was the company? Who knows. At least he wasn’t alone for this particular monster.

He glanced around the table at his temporary companions. He had stumbled upon the troupe barely two weeks prior as they were fighting against a sizeable group of kuo’toa. Though the creatures themselves aren’t particularly dangerous, there is strength in numbers, and this particular group seemed to be ailed by some kind of affliction, judging by how careful the group was in avoiding their claws and teeth. He drew his blade, a sword his father had given him on his birthday, and was just about to jump into the fray, when in one final push, the rest of the fishmen were defeated, either scorched, sliced or slashed, some even sporting remnants of vines, while others were afflicted with necrosis so vile, he avoided looking at them for too long.

When the group noticed him, some were quick to draw their blades. Or, in this case, a staff as well. The imposing glare of the ebony skinned sorcerer, his eyes set aflame as he demanded answers on the who the what and the where. Once it was established he meant them no harm and that he was heading in the same direction as them, the cleric invited him to join their party, if only temporarily. He didn’t know why she offered, most likely out of pity, but he was grateful for the company, nonetheless. It was a rather odd band of adventurers, none of them seeming to fit with each other, the only one with some semblance of amicability towards all of them was the rogue, and even then, he sometimes seemed at loss over the money hungry paladin or the oddly lawful sorcerer. The cleric was a nice enough woman, though maybe a bit socially awkward. He had learned that despite her orders penchant for healing, she much preferred incapacitating her foes before they did enough damage to warrant her using her divine magic. The druid was… haunted, for a lack of a better word. She would twitch, her eyes looking into the distance as if she was looking at something no one else could see, sometimes even whispered denials to herself under her breath. The crown of thorns she wore added to her eerie aura. A band of oddities all around.

He gazed at his sword as it stood beside his chair in regret, the blade chipped and slightly cracked. He had been careless. In a passing scuffle with some bandits, he had recklessly swung the blade, not being attentive to his opponent’s movements and clashed the blade right on top the enemy’s shield, damaging the blade beyond what was likely repairable. The only thing he had of his father with him other than the blood coursing in his veins, and he ruined it without purpose.

It held a special place in his heart, having been given to him as his first real sword. It was too heavy and big for him then, but he grew into it and became adept at wielding it. He had spent hours practising by himself even after his lessons had ended, eager for the day when he would be able to manoeuvre the blade with barely any difficulty, if only to see the proud look in his father’s eyes and a firm nod of praise. With this sword, he had won his first duel, posed for his first portrait, slain his first monster, and most importantly, defeated the cultists threatening to destroy his home.

A he turned away, unable to look at the consequences of his brashness any longer, his attention immediately snapped back to the weapon as a soft glow emanated from it and an armoured glove retreated from where it laid on top of the hilt. He looked up at the cleric, her half-orc, half human features looking back at his with enough insight and understanding to almost make him cower.

“There. Should be as good as new but try to avoid breaking it anytime soon. Who knows how often you’ll stumble upon a worthwhile weaponsmith out here.”, she advised.

After a prolonged moment of silence as she regarded him with wise eyes, she added, “You should get some rest. The monster is likely to put more pressure on you as the youngest, so we’re going to need you alert and rested.” Her tone didn't leave room for retorts or arguments, and as the dragonkin paladin complained about the ‘squishy kid’ getting special treatment and how the half-orc ‘couldn’t keep her hobbit motherly instinct in check’, he knew that he was in good hands.

And as his eyes grew heavy with sleep, he was glad to have met the group, not even dreaming he would unknowingly pass by them, their infected, still bodies aboard an alien nautiloid, vacant minds peacefully awaiting transformation in their respective pods.

[magichcuse]

"His very existence just makes me sick."