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“The year is 1492 DR. Disguised as a servant, Wyll ‘the Blade of Frontiers’ Ravengard snuck into Cazador’s Szarr’s palace and single-handedly ended the lord vampire’s life by coating his rapier in magical sunlight and cutting off his head. When the Gazette approached one of the spawn for commentary, his response was: “Darling, are you serious?”
The year is 1493 DR. The Hells are shocked by the death of one of Zariel’s direct underlings, a cambion named Mizora. It is said that a group of experienced mercenaries marched into Avernus and did not stop until she lay dead at their feet. When the Gazette approached their cleric of Tymora for their feelings on this, their response was: “Was a bit of a hassle but the pay’s well worth it. Pale guy paid us old coins and good shit!”
The year is 1494 DR. Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard will host a grand ball to celebrate his son’s newfound freedom and appointment as future Duke. And I, Lens the Reporter, will ask the future Duke for his commentary that the eager public wants for.”
Wyll raised his eyebrows. “And that’s why you desperately needed to see me.”
“Of course! I take my job very seriously,” Lens said, twirling her pencil. “I have a good memory.”
“So serious, you had to beg the guards in tears to let you in.”
Lens laughed nervously, then shook her head. “Look. My research tells me that you owe your freedom to one of those vampires in the Szarr mansion that you saved a few years ago. And my sources tell me that there will be some vampire guests today. Surely this information is enough to let me stay?”
She proceeded to do the worst puppy eye impression. Wyll forced himself to pretend he was affected by it, and not recoiling so hard he’d turn into a raisin.
“I would be unwise not to let you stay. Please, do mingle and enjoy yourself,” he smiled.
Lens didn’t need to be told twice; she ran off, her tail flailing and nearly hitting a nearby waiter’s serving tray.
Wyll didn’t have the heart to tell her he already knew everything she told him, and more. A helpful spawn by the name of Dalyria told him it might be her brother who ran off with their master’s coffers that night, leaving nothing in the vault. And the coins the cleric showed him were the same print as the one coin he had found on the floor in the Szarr mansion.
Tonight, he hunted a high elf with pale skin and white hair. Not to meet him with his blade. But to meet him with his gratitude.
So of course this event had to be a masquerade ball. Because the Gods enjoyed his misfortune.
Worst of all, the masquerade was his choice. He had met many friends on his journeys, including a heartless tiefling from the hells, a fierce githyanki fighter, a worshipper of Shar and Mystra’s chosen wizard. So unique and amazing that there would be a thousand stares, thus the masks would relieve them of social pressures. Explaining to Lae’zel that the mask served for entertainment and not for combat was a unique experience. No doubt Wyll would meet them after the ball, for it was too easy to lose oneself in a large crowd. They had not only invited the nobles, but many of the common folk. Wyll would have invited all the city if his father hadn't insisted on less.
He tried not to get in the way of the many servants that ran up and down the grand ballroom, attempting to fix any final flaws that inevitably popped up at these events. He could barely move in the stiff courtly tailcoat that reached to his knees, adorned with gold-threaded trimming, dyed a royal sapphire-blue at his father's request. The ornaments dangling from his hair chimed with every step. His chosen mask was a blue devil with exaggerated long horns, a last mockery to Mizora.
The release over her hold on him came as a sudden relief, as if he had never been able to breathe before. The eye she had forced on him stopped pulsing. He knew, before his devil contact Helsik told him, that someone had infiltrated the hells and brought her demise.
His only regret was that he did not see her die. But so small be that regret, for his freedom brought an endless amount of joyous tears to his own and his father's eyes. What was once an ill-gotten deal when he was young and the city in peril, was now no more. And his father no longer carried the guilt of having left his son alone during a cult attack.
He only had one question - why? Why did this mysterious vampire, a spawn he was sure, go to such lengths to assassinate his patron? He hoped to find the answer today. It was why he insisted the ball be held when the sun had set proper.
The black marble floors were swept clean, the blue curtains folded tight along the balustrades. The banquet tables were set with lace cloth and silver bowls serving every delicacy you could find on the Coast. When the guests started pouring in, the bards played his favorite songs. Soon the large ballroom shrank to a pin.
Many masked faces made their way to him, gloved hands touching his, begging for a dance, easily recognizing him. Wyll agreed to all, his stamina more renowned than his title of the Blade. With every dance, he searched for red eyes, pale skin and punctures in the neck. The ballroom filled with twirling skirts and flourishing lapels.
An hour, uncountable amount of dances and three glasses of wine later, Wyll didn't turn to look as his new dance partner took his hand. He greeted his father who patted him on the shoulder, and said his usual line before falling into step.
“So are you enjoying this fair evening?”
“That depends, darling, on how the rest of the evening will fare.”
The unusual response made Wyll face the man with the flirtatious drawl. His heart skipped a beat when beneath the cracked porcelain mask, bat wings extended from the eyes, cracks inlaid with silver and lips painted red, he saw red eyes and white curls.
“It's you,” he whispered.
The masked stranger twirled with him. His moves weren't as smooth - an inexperienced dancer, but Wyll didn't mind. “My sister said you were desperately searching for little old me.”
“I am,” Wyll admitted, and bowed when the dance demanded it, never releasing his hand. He was as cold as death but scented like life, a whiff of rosemary and bergamot tickling his nose.
The stranger bowed with him. His coat wasn't as royal as Wyll's, a plain wine-red jacket with black stitching, breeches tucked into worn leather boots, but he did not stand out in the crowd. Wyll could tell the suit was handmade. It suited his lank form quite well.
“To kill me?” the stranger asked.
Wyll blinked and almost misstepped. “I- No!” he stuttered. “I would be the utmost fool to hurt my savior.”
He didn't know how close he had been to danger. The stranger, as surprised as Wyll was, tucked away the hidden dagger in his sleeve. “Savior?” he asked. “Are you not the Blade of Frontiers, monster hunter, slayer of long-forgotten vampire lord Cazador Szarr?”
Wyll stepped forward with a hand to his chest, spun and clapped, before facing the stranger anew. “And you are a free vampire, slayer of Mizora, nefarious asset of archdevil Zariel. And my hero.”
He heard the stranger smirk under the mask. “Normally, my dear, I would love to take up such a reputation, yet I have not bloodied my own hands with her.”
“But it was with your monetary blessing that they undertook such a venture.” Wyll stamped with one boot on the floor to indicate the end of the dance, yet refused a new partner for the next. “That is why I seek you.”
He took the stranger's hand - uncalled for in this dance, and it elicited a small gasp from someone behind them. “You have given me a freedom that I have not known for years. I do not know how I could ever repay you, but I shall endeavor to come to your side when you need it.”
The stranger fell silent, turned with him while letting go. “Those are my words,” he mumbled.
“I beg pardon?” Wyll asked.
The red eyes pierced his soul. “When you found me, you killed a skeleton that tried to flay me and covered me with your cape. You told me to get to safety. Do you remember?”
Wyll remembered. He had accidentally stumbled upon a hidden door and found that awful skeleton with a rusted knife, and a trembling elf bleeding from his side, making no effort to fight back. The sight infuriated him - he had blasted those bones to dust. He did not remember giving his cape, but he must have. He lacked the warmth around his shoulders descending into the manor.
He looked at the stranger's suit again. A part of it was his cape, which had kept him companionship for years. His father gave him a new one without question, and he hoped this old one gave the stranger the comfort he deserved.
“What you didn't know was that it was not my first flaying. That skeleton had taken my skin many times over under the command of my former master. For hundreds of years I have suffered an agony mortals will never know. For hundreds of years I dreamt of release.”
The dance called for a front and back step, arms linked. He gripped Wyll’s arm hard, and Wyll tried not to wince. “And then you came and slayed my master where he stood. I was free. I was furious. You left without riches, without gloating, like some prince from a fairy tale.”
Wyll frowned. “You're right. I should have checked if you were all fit for travel.”
The stranger groaned and rolled his eyes, both of them swaying side to side around each other, talking over their shoulders.
“I searched long and far for any tarnishes on your knight's armor. Only to find that you were under the thumb of some cambion. The pride of the Gate, bearing the sin of a warlock. It was almost ridiculous. Woe to Mizora, who could not get a warlock to be a villain. I nearly opened a portal to Hell to laugh at her.”
Wyll bit his cheek. He was not the first to remind Wyll of this absurdity, nor the first to laugh at his image. “But that does not explain why you sought her death.” Especially if he despised the Blade, Wyll thought.
The stranger slowed his movements and Wyll tried not to stumble when their palms connected. “What did Cazador offer you in exchange for his unlife?” he asked, voice almost quiet.
Wyll did his best to keep his voice even while sliding a boot across the floor. “The most loathsome thing. One of his spawns, a man with a star in his name, for me to take in bed. As he described his… sexual prowess, I have never felt more hatred. For him to dim a shining star without remorse is something only the most vile are capable of.”
He had stabbed Cazador Szarr before he finished speaking. If that man uttered one more word, he would have retched the contents of his stomach onto his waistcoat.
“Astarion,” the stranger said, and Wyll tilted his head in recognition. Long white lashes hid the stranger’s expression, as he gazed to the marble floor. “You were the first to refuse.”
“You…” Wyll gasped.
They stopped moving between the hundreds of dancers. Their hands still together, Wyll led him away from the center of the floor, ignoring the protesting voices of many young suitors vying for his attention.
The staff greeted him with easy smiles as he escaped through the busy kitchen, a habit they had become used to. Normally they’d offer him a tasty canape or two, were it not for the odd man tailing him. The backdoors led straight to the estate's private garden, a tiny area with a stone fountain, surrounded by hundreds of white rose bushes. Above they were judged by millions of stars, whom Wyll respected more than the Gods.
Astarion, as Wyll now knew, chuckled as he took in the marble columns in each corner. “Why darling, if I didn't know better, I'd think you are about to confess your undying love to me.
Wyll let his hand linger on the fountain, the water gliding through stone vases held by baby-faced cherubs. “I come here when it becomes too much. The nobles gossip and crow, but never seek to help anyone but their own.”
Astarion scoffed. “How did a noble's son become the opposite of high society?”
“My father was no noble. He fought his way up to Archduke and instilled in me the four pillars of justice. He stood by my side when Mizora claimed my soul. Without him, I would not be worthy of saving you.”
Wyll wrung his hands and finally let himself face Astarion, who startled and brought his gaze to a nearby shrubbery. “I beseech you to tell me. Why have you ended my patron’s life, when there was nothing to gain for you?” Wyll asked.
Astarion remained quiet. Wyll was willing to wait an eternity and would have, for his response. He tugged at a loose thread in his sleeve, which if he pulled too hard would unravel the entire seam. His hands were bony and thin, and betrayed hundreds of attempts to heal the skin to its former glory. But no magic could restore to perfection, and thus his skin seemed slightly off. Like scales on a dragon grown the wrong way.
“You were the first one to see worth in me. You, a man in chains, broke mine. That is a gift, you know, as per your words, one I can never repay. That is why I set out to break your chains.”
Astarion didn’t look at him, for if he did, Wyll would spill a thousand thank yous from his tongue. Instead, he did a coquettish hand wave, brushing away the moment as an inconvenience when for Wyll, it was everything.
“And now that you know, we shan’t meet again.”
“We won't?” Wyll asked bewildered.
“My dear, I am a creature of the night. I reside in some ruined tower in the Underdark, hoping to find a weakened minotaur to drink from. You are the Archduke’s son and future duke, living in the upper part of the Upper City. What could you possibly want more from me?”
“There is no one else I want more from now than you.”
Astarion, finally, looked at him in awe. “You don't know me.”
“I am aware.”
“You don't even know what I look like.”
“I want to. If you wish for it.”
Wyll grabbed his devil mask and removed it, the wind chilling his sweaty forebrow. Without a mask, the face that hid none of his inner thoughts was on full display, and the analytical stare he received from Astarion did nothing to quench his sudden onset of nerves. What was it his father always said? When you wear a mask for so long, you forget who you are beneath it.
Still, he reached forward, allowing ample amount of room between Astarion's mask and his hand. “Only if you wish it,” he repeated.
Astarion fidgeted. Wyll wondered if he would take the invitation to leave, as was his right, and Wyll would only follow to ensure he left safely without being accosted.
Yet Astarion nodded. Let Wyll close the gap.
Gently, slowly, he pushed his fingers between the mask and cold skin, eliciting a soft gasp. With two fingers in, he dragged the porcelain edge and pulled Astarion’s mask off, revealing a tousled coiffure over deadly pale skin. Astarion blinked to regain his senses.
Wyll couldn’t help the blush that graced his ears. “You’re beautiful.”
“I know, my dear,” Astarion smirked in return, but the nervous twitch in his hands betrayed his false confidence.
Wyll placed their masks on the fountain’s edge, balancing them so they’d hold each other steady and not tip into the water. He then held out his elbow for Astarion to take, who looked at it in confusion.
“Stay. Meet my friends. I shall ask the cook for a glass of cow’s blood, Gods know I’ve asked for stranger things,” Wyll offered.
Inviting a vampire spawn into his home. His father will think him queer, even more so after Karlach and Lae’zel. But Astarion was worth it - Wyll knew it to be true.
It would be a few more moments for Astarion to understand he truly meant it. And after shaking his head and poorly hiding a smile, Astarion took his arms, and let Wyll lead him into a new, hopefully kinder venture.