Hello, everyone! This fic was brought about by me getting deep into BG3, wanting to see some more Wyll/Karlach love, and me needing to get this story out of my damn head. This fic is partially based on my first playthrough (where I was going through everything blind), and partially on my Honor Mode run, which included some moments where I thought I'd genuinely TPK.
My HM run was also my Origin Wyll run, so there's gonna be plenty of moments based on that, too. There are a decent amount of bits that are taken from the game (like, you know, the whole main plot), but also some of the dialogue. I want to make this as true to the in-game experience as I can, so that's what I hope to do. While adding all my romances jaja. Tags for said ships (other than Wyllach) will be added as they pop up in the story, so as to not mislead people into thinking that the relationships have already been explored in the fic.
And as a side note, this fic will stay M rated for one reason and one reason only. I. Cannot. Write. Smut. To. Save. My. LIFE.
While there will be implied sexual content, I do not have the smut writing chops to create it myself. Sorry about that. But otherwise, general warnings for all the mature themes seen in BG3.
And a big shoutout to my friends, whom this fic is dedicated to. orca_sribbles, who is responsible for dragging me into this fandom in the first place, and Legendofgays. Though neither of them have Wyllach as their OTP (and Legendofgays actually ships Karlach with herself), they have been the biggest cheerleaders for this fic, so this is for them!
And without further ado, onto this mega fic. Let's gooooo!
The fire felt cold.
It wasn't, of course. The stack of branches and kindling was big enough to provide warmth for the party of five, but after leaving the blazing Hells on the nautiloid, Wyll felt like there was something missing from the flames. A sense of primordial heat and vigor he'd become accustomed to in Avernus, though he'd only been there a short while.
I shouldn't be missing it, Wyll thought as he tossed and turned in his bedroll. I may be pacted to the Hells, but that doesn't mean I should enjoy its warmth.
Holding back a sigh, Wyll turned his gaze to the glittering sky. Scores of stars blinked down at him. He took in a deep breath, attempting to focus on the scent of nature around him. He smelled honeysuckle, violets, and the bittersweet musk of forest trees blanketed in moss. It was the scent of the forest that had accompanied him in his early days of exile from Baldur's Gate. One that used to bring him peace.
But it didn't tonight.
Tonight, each breath was tinged with the metallic, ash-filled air of Avernus. Memories intertwined as the images of several faces flashed in Wyll's mind. The face of his father. The face of his patron. And the face of a tiefling with a single horn.
Advocatus diaboli.
Wyll pushed himself off his bedroll and walked to the edge of camp. He knew he wouldn't get much sleep tonight, and the last thing he wanted was to wake the others. That would lead to questions. Questions his pact forbade him from answering.
It had all started with meeting thrice-blasted Raphael. They were on the bridge that crossed the long river when the fiend intercepted them, a few days after the crash. When they were transported to that dining room, filled to the brim with ostentatious food and decor, Wyll could only focus on the smell. The food masked it somewhat, but there was nothing that could completely cover Avernus' scent of smoke and flames.
They couldn't fight him. Not when they didn't know anything about Raphael, and certainly not after being thrown from the nautiloid. Whatever the tadpole had done, it had sapped away nearly all of Wyll's energy. It had sapped everyone's. And though their energy, powers, and skills were slowly coming back to them, they were still no match for a devil in his own home.
And then, the fiend offered them a deal. Wyll could only sigh at the proposal. It hadn't been the first time he'd been offered a deal like this. It hadn't even been the first time it'd come from a fiend of the Hells.
But now, things were different. This deal wasn't his only option. And if they were careful, it wouldn't need to be an option.
He just had to remember that.
Though Gale and Shadowheart had been curious, the rest of his companions had the sense to be wary of Raphael. Lae'zel, though single-minded in her pursuit of a Crèche, had the wisdom to avoid dealing with a fiend. Astarion, too, was suspicious, though he didn't trust the group enough to say why.
Even Tav, an amnesiac sorcerer they'd picked up, knew that their strange struggle with impulse control was enough to keep them away from dealing with someone as unsavory as Raphael. Though the odd dragonborn was clearly working through some stuff, Wyll (and the rest of their party) had been relieved when Tav had relinquished leadership to Wyll and Gale. Though they lacked their memories, at least Tav's common sense was still intact.
And then there was Wyll, who gave a story of a fairytale his father read to him when he was young, instead of telling the real reason why he felt sorrow at the thought of dealing with the devil.
Wyll sighed as he knelt by the water's edge, a fair distance from camp. The water was cool, calm, but it did nothing to dispel the thoughts from his mind. Images of his father, the greatest man he had ever known, leaving Baldur's Gate with a company of his most trusted soldiers. Images of the damned cultists, brandishing their weapons and preparing their assault on his city. Images of Ulder Ravengard, shocked and horrified, as he took in the fact that his only son had made a pact with a fiend. And then, at last, the image of his father, forlorn and resigned, telling him, "Go."
Even after all these years, Wyll couldn't blame his father for banishing him from the city. But that didn't make it any easier. So Wyll turned to the other thought in his mind, in hopes that it would help him forget about that fateful night. If only for a moment.
Karlach. A soldier of Zariel, and his newest target.
When Wyll had escaped his pod on the nautiloid, Karlach had been the first thought on his mind. When he had landed on the beach, again, she was the first thing he thought of.
It had taken some time, but after journeying through Avernus, he had found her. Running at the edge of a battlefield. He had run in pursuit, and he was close, so close to catching her, when something rumbled above him and his world faded to black.
He had entered Avernus as a hunter, but had left as prey to the tadpole in his mind.
After landing on the beach, his only desire had been to return to the Hells and finish his hunt. The threat of the tadpole stopped him. If their theories were right, they were lucky to have not transformed just yet, but that didn't mean they weren't in peril. A search for Karlach was overruled by discussions of a cure. It's why they were looking for clues to the druid Halsin's whereabouts instead of Karlach's. If only he could search for both. It didn't sit right with him—leaving a hunt unfinished.
A blaze of light broke him from his thoughts.
Wyll quickly stood and spun around to see a circle of flames. Within it was a brown, liquid-like substance, and then a woman appeared.
With a flicker of light, the brown liquid fell away from her. The cambion was tall, with light blue skin and pink-tinged wings, and short red hair that was brushed behind her ears. Her floor-length blue dress had slits that ended just above her hips, and a deep neckline that ended just above her navel. She wore an intricate golden circlet that was custom-made to hang from her four tall horns, as well as a matching golden necklace and belt. Her lips were purple. Her eyes were black, with flecks of fire for irises.
"My poor little pupster," she crooned. "A free trip on a mindflayer machine, and all you've got is a brain-bug to show for it."
"Mizora," Wyll snarled. "I'm surprised it took you this long to stop by."
"Oh? Did you miss me? I do hope so." Mizora smirked and took a look around, glancing at the campfire where the others were still sleeping. "Sweet spot you've found for yourself. But I wouldn't get too cozy. After all, we've got a deal."
Immediately, the image of the infernal tiefling filled his mind. Karlach, cutting through imps with a single stroke of her ax. Her horn, blazing with demonic fire. The kind of fire one only receives when they are given power by a master of the Hells.
A power Wyll knew too well.
"She's still in the Hells. I need to get back there," Wyll said. Mizora had helped him enter Avernus before, and perhaps she could do so again. If Wyll could finish off Karlach, then he could return to the party. Without the threat of Karlach plaguing his mind. Then he could focus solely on ridding themselves of the tadpoles.
Mizora wagged her finger as if he were a dog. In her eyes, he was. "Wrong on both counts, pet."
Wyll narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Karlach's not just the Hells' problem now," Mizora explained. "She fled Avernus on the same ship you hitched a ride on, with a tadpole worming around her skull. Wild little thing. You don't find her and cut her down, she'll burn the whole Coast to ash." She smiled. "And I know the famed Blade of Frontiers would never stand for that."
Realization sunk deep into his bones. Wyll had heard the details from Mizora, but it hadn't fully prepared him for the sight he saw in Avernus. Karlach, furious and wild, slashing her way through enemies as fire burned around her. Her flames were tall, and though Wyll hadn't gotten close to her, even he could feel the force of their heat.
She was a devil. A danger in the Hells. And now that she was in Faerûn, a danger to the Sword Coast.
Though it pained him to admit it, Mizora was right. Now that he knew Karlach was here, he couldn't just stand by. Not even when his own life was under threat from the tadpole.
"The Sword Coast is in danger," Wyll replied, determination filling his voice. "I'll send this damned fiend back to the Hells where she belongs."
"Very good, pet." Mizora's tapped her finger in the air, like she was booping Wyll's nose without actually touching him. "I'm pleased to see that the tadpole hasn't made you dull."
Wyll held back a scoff. "After all these years, you'd think you'd stop talking to me as if I were a child. I may be your hound, Mizora, but I am not the same boy you tricked long ago."
"Aw." Mizora pouted. "Are you quite sure about that?"
"If I were, you wouldn't be sending me out like an attack dog to any threat you deem worthy."
Mizora stepped forward, circling Wyll with long strides of her barely-clothed legs. "I will admit, you've grown. When I offered you the pact, you were hardly a man, brimming with potential."
"I was seventeen!" Wyll replied, barely holding back a shout. "Barely old enough to hold down hard liquor. Much less old enough to understand what you were offering."
"And yet, you were old enough that your father trusted you to stay by yourself in Baldur's Gate." Mizora tsked. "Poor Ulder Ravengard. Leaving his city to fight the forces of the Hells, only to return and see his son bound to them."
His father was shocked. And when he'd looked at Wyll, begging for an explanation, when Wyll could offer him none, that shock turned to devastation.
There was nothing Wyll could say, and Mizora knew that.
He turned his gaze to the ground.
"You have grown," Mizora continued. "When we first met, you needed my intervention to win the fight. Even after I'd gifted you my power." Wyll saw her bare feet come to a stop in front of him. "Now, you could have defeated them all by yourself. But that doesn't make you better. It only makes you more useful to me."
Wyll turned away.
"Look at me, pet."
He didn't have to. There was no stipulation in their contract that stated otherwise—not that Mizora had ever let him fully read it—but she had given him an order.
Wyll obeyed, and he looked into Mizora's flickering eyes.
"That's better." The fiend smirked. "And remember. Failure's not an option when your soul is on the line. Good boys get treats. Bad boys? Well—let's not think about that 'til we need to."
Wyll grimaced, but once again, said nothing.
"Bring me her head for dessert," Mizora said, a snarl entering her voice. "I've a sweet tooth, and devil's on the menu."
The flames returned. They circled Mizora, creating the brown liquid that suddenly coated her entire body. She raised her arm, and with a flash of Hells-touched light, she was gone.
Once again, Wyll was alone. He took in a deep breath, but Mizora's scent lingered. The smell of the violets and moss was gone, replaced her perfume, tinged with sulfur and mixed with the ash of Avernus.
"Damn you," Wyll said to the air. "Damn you to the deepest layer of the Hells."
But Mizora couldn't hear him. Of course she couldn't. He'd only found the courage after she'd left.
With a heavy sigh, Wyll settled down at the water's edge. He had to think.
For all her tricks, Mizora had never outright lied to Wyll. Which meant that Karlach was indeed out of the Hells. Wyll didn't have any clues as to where, but she couldn't be far. She was, in a way, like him. Stranded in a remote corner of the Coast with no supplies and a tadpole that had taken more than it had given. Chances were, she was close. And if she was close, then she could be killed.
Though Wyll tried to take on as many threats by his own volition, when Mizora gave him a target, Wyll was bound to obey. But though he was only given targets that were devilish or demonic, Wyll found himself eager for this one. A devil in the Sword Coast. A commander of Zariel's army, who could likely decimate civilians with a single swing of her ax.
I'm coming for you, Karlach, Wyll vowed. And I will make sure you never harm a soul again.
For though Wyll did not have the freedom to disobey Mizora, in that moment, he was certain that he would have hunted Karlach willingly.