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The longsword's steel is a light blue. Celestial steel, they've been informed. Intricate, powerful, it glows and hums, perched on its stone pedestal. Waiting.
His hand curls around the grip.
The Sword of Zariel has deemed you worthy, Wyll Ravengard, Blade of Frontiers, Heart and Pride of the Gate, Dragonkin. You feel it’s approval and elation deep within your very being, it thrums and pulses in satisfaction. It doesn’t speak in words, but you can interpret what it wants to convey as “Yes! Yes, this will do quite nicely, this I can work with!”
It’s as if the sword is scanning every inch of your soul and it stumbles on the part that has been scarred and punished by Mizora’s contract, that stipulates your fiendish appearence no matter the form you take and that you shall feel extreme discomfort as long as it's there. Not even the Platinum Dragon was able to touch that, but the Sword merely dismisses it with ease and nonchalance.
The weight you’ve been carrying for months since you decided to spare Karlach’s life, relinquishes.
The Sword respects your sacrifices and your marks and it shows you what it thinks your new image could be. It promises the pain will be temporary, as all changes require it, but it guarantees the discomfort from the Contract will be forever gone from now on.
Do you accept the Sword's words?
"Yes." Wyll answers, outloud, even though he doesn't need to.
His head is suddenly light. He watches as the huge unyeldy curled horns fall in front of him and disintegrate.
Pain. Red, hot and wet. In his head and in his back. He feels warm fluid pooling and trickling down his face, neck and shoulder blades. His vision whites out. The force of it jerks his body so hard he hunches over, down on all fours. He realizes the scream he's hearing is his own. And the metallic smell is ftom his own blood.
To call the vision from the outside gruesome would be an understatement.
"WYLL!" Karlach shouts and tries reaching for him, but Lulu stops her.
They all watch as the horns fall off and vanish into dust. And from the stumps that are left, new ones begin to grow. But they are smaller, more regal, smoother, they are black, sleek and don't curl in on themselves, they merely suggest a curve, like a Bronze Dragon’s. The blood on it looks black.
Wyll's back opens up in two gashes and from them skinny limbs and membrane sprout out, shiny with blood as if birthed. They twitch and shake like a small bird. Wings. Big and majestic and horrifying to watch as they surge.
There had been no time to commission a glass eye for his empty socket, so he had been wearing an eyepatch. A bronze eye appears inside the socket, but the Sword respects his battles and his vision is still the same, on that side. The other side, however. He blinks and for a moment he sees … gray fog and nothingness, the Ethereal Plane. Then he blinks again and it's gone, back to seeing his party's worried faces as his transformation finishes.
Even his skin is changing. All the ridges and bumps that drove him mad turn into scales or disappear. He doesn't feel like a stranger in his own skin any more, the horns are lighter and even the eye socket has been soothed. The wings feel… natural, part of his body as if they've always been there, moving them feel as easy as moving his fingers. This Sword has an absurd sense of flair and drama, but judging by it's appearance, Wyll reckons it makes sense.
He takes a deep breath and tries out the wings, opening them to their full breadth. They glitter and shine in brand new polished bronze and wet blood. The looks of worry from his party turn into awe and it would take a humbler man than him not to preen under that so he complements it by lifting the sword skyward. It doesn't last long, though, as the exhaustion catches up with him and Wyll goes to his knees.
"WYLL!"
This time the hollyphant lets them get closer and hurries along with them. Everyone has the same idea and all the three people capable of healing abilities blast him at the same time. Tessa, Shadowheart, and Lulu.
Later he will realise his rapier has changed too, now that the Infernal shackles have released from his soul.
Imagine the soul as a blade.
A good one, carefully looked after.
A bad one suited for rusting in the rain.
Flame-tempered, balanced and radiant, this blade is Wyll's soul summarised in steel and bronze.