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“ANSUR!” Wyll shouts, begs. “Heed me, Heart of the Gate!”
To everyone’s surprise the gargantuan dragon stopped. He was still reeling from the Emperor’s presence, but a new one now called for him, a presence he felt sometime ago. A presence that shined and had made the odious Tiamat retreat back into the Hells. And then that presence had vanished, for years. He had been so blinded by his fury that only now he recognised Wyll Ravengard right in front of him.
“Now it’s our chance,” the Emperor echoed in their heads. “Subdue h-”
But Tessa was done with its antics. “Halt,” she Commanded.
“What are you doing?!”
“Making sure you don’t interfere, Little Emperor Without Clothes.”
“He has no powers!”
Tessa ignored it and nodded at Wyll, guaranteeing him that he wouldn’t be interrupted.
“It has been seven years since that night. I still remember the dream. But it was no dream, was it? It was you, O Great Wyrm! I came back, do you recall me?”
WYLL… RAVENGARD… BANE OF THE CULT OF THE DRAGON.
“Yes…” Wyll smiled, his eyes sparkled but then turned sad. “Great Wyrm, you have endured on sorrow, anger and regret alone all these centuries. You hurt, you grieve! I understand your ire, but we are the only hope Baldur’s Gate has left. And you deserve to rest. I-” he closed his fist tight, his voice breaking, “We would be doing you more harm than good asking you to aid us alongside the creature who caused you such suffering. So, rest. I, Wyll Ravengard, Blade of Frontiers will do your bidding, your duty and carry out your will in your stead. If you deem me worthy of such.”
A channel between them opened, something just for them. No one else heard them.
BALDURAN-
He won’t be long for this world. Our alliance hangs on the edge of a knife. It enthralled Duke Stelmane, it took advantage of a prisoner prince, it killed you. And for that it shall pay. Its time will come. Justice will be made.
Something lodged into his heart then. It wasn’t physical, but it was there, odd and subtle. And without warning or words of farewell, the figure of the decaying dragon lost its spark and tumbled down, leaving a huge dust cloud in its wake.
The room is silent. Once again a sad tomb for a betrayed lover that only now could finally sleep.
They listened to the Emperor explain its past as Balduran, berating them for even caring about his past, insisting it never lied. ‘I was just like you. An adventurer who had a mind flayer tadpole inserted into him. We are the same.’ it repeated yet again. And they listened as it tried to justify its slaughter as self defence. But the weapon of the crime was right there: the Giantslayer, forever deformed after it, covered in pulsing flesh and teeth.
“I do not know how you convinced him to stand down, that was an extraordinary feat. Don’t be discouraged, however, by the absence of an ally. If anything, these trials have confirmed what we already knew: we are the Heart-”
Tessa glared at it. The audacity of throwing a rallying speech at them after confessing to the ultimate sin of betrayal. After throwing what it did to Stelmane in her face not even a few days before today.
“Why don’t you go back to your Prism? We’ll talk later on how to approach defeating Orin.”
A beat as the Emperor scanned the room. “Very well. Until then.” it summoned the portal and left them with a small curt nod.
Wyll’s back, taught as a bow, his fists both tight balls as Tessa got closer. But the moment she put her hand on his shoulder, they relaxed.
“Thank you,” he sighed. “For a moment there I almost…”
“Drove a dagger through its bulging head?” Tessa repeated his words. “It will come. But not now.” she kissed his brow, tenderly, hoping it would say all the things she wished to say to him.
“I concede the right of last blood to you, Wyll. I shall contend the one for first.” Lae’zel said, in her own way of trying to cheer him up.
“Hm. I don’t think this is quite what ‘never meet your heroes’ is supposed to be about.” Gale quipped.
And that managed to get a chuckle out of their Blade of Frontiers.
“That’s enough of that.” Tessa cut them, but with a fond smile on her face. "Let’s gather our loot and go back to the Elfsong. I think we all deserve a good meal and a warm bath after this. Specially Wyll.”
Wyll asks for privacy that night. He skips the dinner, he doesn’t have an appetite. He does have a warm bath, though. Stays too long in it, staring at the ripples in the water. When he realizes, the water is tepid. He’s the first to go to bed.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes again he’s in the middle of a forest, bathed in golden light. He can see mountains in the distance. Beautiful waterfalls, rainbows and palaces dot the landscape. But closer he can see a shiny palace. But this doesn’t feel like his usual dreams… He feels more aware. More awake.
That something in his heart nudges him and somehow he knows where to go. Wyll follows an invisible path through the illuminated woods, towards the palace. A clearing opens and he sees a gazebo with a table set for tea. A man sits by it, serving a fragrant floral tea. And sleeping at the table, snuggled up and peaceful, is a tiny bronze dragon.
“Welcome to Mount Celestia, Wyll Ravengard,” the man says.
“Did I … Die?”
The man laughs. “No, no, nothing of the sort. This is more akin to astral projection. Please, sit. Have some tea with me.”
The man has dark skin and long platinum braids that cascade over his shoulders, his face is peppered with scalloped platinum scales, his ears are also scallop shaped and his eyes are sharp and slanted like-. He looks somewhat older than Wyll, but not by much. The delicate tea set spread on the table contrasts with his big build of fat and muscle. His chubby face smiles warmly as Wyll approaches and sits at the table. The spread is rich in delicacies that he has never seen before, some even shine and glitter. But Wyll’s eyes keep going back to the small dragon.
“I thank you, Wyll, for returning him to me and completing his passage to Mount Celestia. It was a remarkable act of kindness,” the man says, serving some tea for the both of them.
“I couldn’t let him suffer like that. No one deserves to wallow in such a tragedy for that long. I don’t agree with what he did, but what B-… the Emperor did was even worse.” it’s still too fresh in his mind, the shock of discovering what one of your heroes has become. Wyll takes the cup and has a sip of the tea. The taste of daisies fills his senses, as if he’s lying on a bed of them. “What should I call you?”
The man shrugs. “Whatever you want, to be frank. I have so many names. Fizban the Fabulous, Marduk, Xymor, Lutiya, Bahamut, Balhut… What do you think would suit me best?”
“I’m not a pious man, but in my studies I’ve always found it curious that a god so powerful as you would be called Grandmaster of Flowers. I would like to call you Grandmaster, if that is agreeable.”
The Grandmaster chuckles. “Powerful? You honour me, young Wyll. I would be glad to be called so by you.”
“This is all lovely, but… Why am I here? Gods usually only give me the cold shoulder.”
“It is a shame, that. Unfortunately a consequence to signing that contract. But now it is broken! Pardon my hum and haw, it isn’t everyday that I get the opportunity to entertain guests,” he takes a sip of the tea, a long one, and even pauses to sigh appreciatively with his eyes closed. Once he opens them again and puts the teacup on its saucer he says “I am here to pass on the will and title of Ansur the Bronze Dragon, the Heart of the Gate, the Waiting Storm, onto his Heir. Wyll Ravengard, the Blade of Frontiers.”
It is only by years of etiquette training that Wyll doesn’t choke on the tea. “W-What?”
“Before allowing his soul to move on, Ansur named you his Heir. And expressed his wish that you would be knighted for completing his trials. That, I believe, would resolve your issue with breaking the Infernal Contract, would it not?”
“Yes… But…”
“And you did vow to fulfil his duty, carry out his will?”
“I did, but I thought it merely a promise. I- Heir of a Dragon-”
“I do hope you’re not hesitating for thinking yourself unworthy, Wyll. See, I wish I could do more for you. Undo the terrible punishment you’ve been dealt. This is not the first time you have done a favour for dragon-kind.”
“The Cult, of course…”
“Yes. Impeding my sister and her followers from overtaking Baldur’s Gate is something I am most grateful and I could never, until this moment, thank you for. Alas, I cannot undo the punishment, it is regrettably not within my power. But I can give you my blessing, so you can prevail in your fight against the Absolute and my knowledge, so in the future you can finally be free of that punishment.”
“Would it require me to worship you?”
“Not exactly… Swearing an Oath is a very different kind of worship. And even then, if you desired to become one of my Clerics, I much prefer the philosophy of praying through one’s deeds. Through your actions you would honour me, yes, but as an Oathsworn your powers would not come from your faith in me. Take your beloved Otessa, for example, she swore her Oath assisted by an Archfey, she does not worship that Archfey. They are, however, connected by a profound bond. I understand your hesitation, the last thing you wish for is to be shackled to another entity that gives you constant orders. That is not me. I have hopes that we can be… Friends. And that in the future, when you realize the power that I facilitated for you, not gave you, is yours alone, we can have a rapport.”
Wyll stays silent. He doesn’t want to reject the god outright. But is this another trap? Can he trust this?
The Grandmaster smiles. “There’s no need to answer right now. And you can say no, Wyll. You have my word that I shall not be offended. And neither will Ansur. His time in Baldur’s Gate is over, as much as it pains me to say so. If all you can accept of my gratitude at this moment is a meal, then I shall be happy to provide it all the same.”
The growing panic in his chest vanishes. Maybe he should be more suspicious of this but he’s so tired and hungry. What could be the harm in eating a meal with the dragon god of Justice?
As Wyll’s shoulders relax, Bahamut gestures with his palms upright, presenting the table yet again and explains what each of the dishes are.
In the fancy pot is his favourite tea made from the first daisies to bloom in this part of Celestia. There’s bread made with golden wheat and speckled with gold flakes, Shell-Cow butter with Kelp from the Plane of Water, Rainbow Salmon smoked in the Plane of Ash, fey honeycomb that shines in octagon shaped pools of mercurial liquid, fried eggs bigger than any chicken or duck egg he’d ever seen and with yolks gleaming red, marbled blocks of cheese, Giant Boar sausage and raw ham, a bowl with fruits he has never seen before, small sweets that looked like jewels and … actual jewels and coins?
Bahamut chuckles. “No, no! These little buggers are Hoard Scarabs. Delicious when fried in butter,” he then takes one coin and put it whole in his mouth, the crunch of the scarab satisfying in a way that makes Wyll reach for one first. Their taste is delightful, he has tasted critters before but none like this.
After the meal, Bahamut invites him for a walk around the grounds of his palace. It’s fascinating to observe a god while on his duties. He leaves the small dragon that once was Ansur in the hands of one of his Gold Wyrms. Wyll accompanies him as he talks with the pilgrims who made the journey to Mount Celestia, clerics, paladins and petitioners. He watches as Bahamut tests their martial prowess and teaches them, patient, attentive and calm. He catches himself thinking maybe one day he will make the pilgrimage himself, no astral projection needed.
“I have come to a decision.” Wyll declares, as they walk.
Bahamut nods once, hands crossed behind his back.
“I accept your blessing. I accept Ansur’s will.”
He thought he would have to kneel and do all those knight-y high and mighty things. But the god only holds his face on his hands, rough from battle, but gentle, and looks into his eyes and says:
“Wyll Ravengard, the Blade of Frontiers. I name you Heir of Ansur, I name you the Heart and Pride of the Gate and I name you Dragonkin. All good dragons shall recognise you as such. Go forth with Honor and Respect. As you have already been doing.” his eyes reflect only love and pride, something Wyll hasn’t felt directed at him for a long time, it’s almost blinding. “After the defeat of the Absolute, search for the Sword of Zariel, it will unshackle you, at last.”
Wyll wakes with the sunrise, feeling light, well rested and with a serenity that seemed impossible the moment his head hit the pillow the night before. The ceiling of the Elfsong’s parlour is the perfect thing to look at as he digests what happened. An itch suddenly erupts on his face, old scars that hadn’t stirred in years, and he instinctively scratches it. The skin is dry and flaky and it peels off easily. A cold takes hold of him. What’s happening with his body now?
Cold feet hit the warmed floor of the parlour and he runs to the mirror in the corner. The faint light of candles is enough to see his own reflection, the missing stone on his eye socket still feels foreign and unsettling, but Wyll ignores that to look at his scars. The skin is flaking off and underneath it… shiny, new and tender bronze scales. All of his scars are turning greyish and they itch and itch. Not just on his face but on his chest and arms too. He’ll draw himself a bath and get a good scrub later. The changes are… as dramatic as Mizora’s punishment but they feel different. The scales will protect him, they aren’t there to be a disturbance and a way to make him look horrifying. It feels like a mantle being passed on to him, Ansur making him his heir. Heart of the Gate, Dragonkin.
“Wyll!” he hears Astarion calling from his alcove. “Did you lay this egg?”
What the Hells is Astarion on about? Is this one of his jokes? Wyll turns around. Astarion is sitting on his – Wyll’s - bed, something big and round between his hands. Something in the shape of an egg.
“Oh, how wonderful! Wyll, that’s a drake egg! How did one show up on your bed-” Gale interrupts himself the moment he looks at Wyll’s face, his eyes widen. “Good Heavens, Wyll. Are you feeling okay?”
Wyll nods. “I feel great, Gale. I’ll explain later today. Astarion, can I have that?”
“Sure, mother-hen,” Astarion smirks. “Give them a good name, darling.”
“A good name…” Wyll caresses the scaled exterior of the egg, lost in thought. “Gale, do you by any chance know how to care for drake eggs?”
“You asked the right person for the job, my dear Wyll!”
As the wizard runs his mouth about the best type of fabric to make incubation easier, Wyll thinks about a myriad of names for his new companion, the gift from the Platinum Dragon.