Chapter Text
ACT I.
At dawn’s breaking the hunter came from the woods.
Above him the rising sun cast the tree-tops in crimson. The approaching morning came slow as honey, lazily spreading golden upon the land. Already there was a hint upon the wind of the oppressive summer heat that would soon envelop the town, stifling breath and movement—but for now the air wending through the world moved freely and lightly, the last respite of the night.
Melodious birdsong rose in the woods around the hunter as he emerged from the shadows between the trees, heralding his arrival.
He was a human man, about thirty years old, with little unremarkable about his appearance save the stone that filled one of his eye sockets. Its iris was carved as a gray shaded circle onto the stone’s smooth white surface, the pupil an obsidian crescent very like a reflection of light or the shape of a heart. His remaining eye was one of soft, deep brown. It held an intense warmth, the sort that comforted lost souls and drew the curious close. Scars traced the lines of his face, complementing its handsome angles, and his dark hair was braided back into rows.
The rough fabric of his traveling cloak and his leather boots were coated with pale road-dust. From this detail, the town’s people correctly guessed that the hunter had come from the great road that began in splendorous Waterdeep and ran all the way north to Mirabar, the craggy range of the Spine of the World beyond, its scarred peaks clawing towards the stars. That road neatly sliced through the northwestern portion of the continent, playing host to all sorts of traders and adventurers and would-be heroes.
The town was about a mile from the road, separated only by a brief, picturesque expanse of ivy-draped wood. And so many cut across the forest to make their way to the town, indicated by a wooden signpost at the side of the main road, searching for a respite from their wearisome travels. Time and weather had long since worn away the name of the town from the sign. On its weathered wood was left only a faded arrow pointing in the direction of the town from the road; a mere hint, a meager hope of refuge from the many travails of the road.
Travelers from the road seeking a warm place to sleep and a strong drink weren’t an uncommon sight even in this town so insignificant that it too lacked a name on most maps, and those travelers invested necessary coin into the economy of the town.
And so it was not the simple fact of the hunter’s presence the townspeople marveled at—though some wondered whether he had slept at all that night, despite the broad, bright smile upon his face. Yet, despite the purple-hued shadows under his eyes, he showed none of the weariness that might be associated with such a journey.
Most of those travelers’ faces were hooded and hidden in shadow or their expressions so cold and unfriendly that, either way, the sight of them immediately discouraged all the townspeople’s inquiries. The people of this town wanted badly for excitement, but they were not impolite.
Nearly all of those travelers went on their way to their true destination as soon as the sun rose the next morning over the tree-tops of the forest, finding nothing interesting in the town to entertain themselves with for longer than a few hours, always being occupied with greater, grander concerns.
On this morning, one seeming adherent to that rule rose from her bed in the town’s tavern, having made her way there late the previous night. Now she secreted herself in the tavern’s darkest corner, far from any rosy, grasping finger of the dawn, cloaking herself in shadows as was her well-practiced way. Her only companion was a dusty bottle of wine.
From the instant the townspeople set eyes upon him, it was obvious that the hunter was different from nearly all those other travelers. For the hood of his cloak was thrown back, revealing his smiling face to the world; displaying the easy friendliness in his expression as if he’d happily help you chop wood or shepherd sheep and then sit down with you for a tankard of ale afterwards.
And it was from the sight of his open, smiling face that some immediately pronounced him a fool. Perhaps he was some hapless adventurer wishing to make a name for himself, some silly man lost in dreams of heroism that would soon find an ignoble end at the hands of one of the Sword Coast’s many monsters or villains. But even accusations of foolishness did not temper the townspeople’s curiosity. Hardly anything would have.
A few were reminded of that other human man who had come to their town years ago, that traveler who too had greeted them all with a seemingly unguarded, friendly expression. That man had come late in the evening, only a hint of the sun’s light upon the horizon, starlight falling silver upon his porphyry-colored cloak.
He had been an affable wizard, brown hair streaked heavily with gray, gaunt with sickness despite his broad smile. None had glimpsed the magical scarring that beringed his chest below his clothing, that necrotic wound borne of hubris limning his veins a sickly perse, decay slowly claiming him.
The very next day, the wizard had gone on his apparently merry way, leaving a generous stack of gold on the bar counter. He had only shared with the barkeeper that he was headed north for a long stay. None in the town had connected his brief stay with the rumors of an explosion near Reghed Glacier that came a few tendays later. It was reported that only one unnamed soul had perished in the destruction of that remote place.
The people also thought of that other exception to the rule, who remained here in the town even now. But it had been some years and so even they had gotten used to that strange newcomer, easily weaving him into the predictable fabric of their town.
As the hunter strode down the main street of the town, a narrow straight dirt-packed thing, many eyes followed him. Most in this town made their trade from farming or animal husbandry and so even in the long light-filled days of the summer, the majority of the town rose before the sun did.
If he had not expected so many eyes to be upon him this early in the morning, the hunter showed no trepidation or surprise, only warmly smiling at those whose gazes lingered upon him overlong. He wasn’t one unused to attention, some of the more canny townspeople judged. Though—that could bode either good or ill for their little town.
The blacksmith paused in waking their forge to watch him go, their eyes on the hilt and pommel of the rapier at his waist. Those visible parts of the hunter’s weapon were formed of intricate gilt constructions. An incongruous sight, next to the rest of his road-worn attire. The weapon was the type you might see at the side of a regal prince or a valiant knight, not that of a lone adventurer.
From the dark, half-shuttered windows of their small shops, the merchants watched the hunter, already thinking of how much gold he might have in his pockets, of whether he might have anything interesting to offer in trade. And all alongside the road and from within the intersecting alleys, the people watched him, their myriad duties forgotten for the moment.
Some blushed at the charming smiles he offered them, others frowned in suspicion, but all their eyes were upon him, curious and expectant. One question stood at the forefront of the mind of every soul that set eyes upon him.
Who was this man?
If anyone’s eyes were on anything but the hunter, perhaps they might have seen the curtains draped over the glass window of the tailor’s shop shift ever so slightly, revealing firelight within limning silver curls. But not a soul in the town sighted the brief movement in the shop window before the curtains resettled, firmly blocking out all light and sight from outside.
Seemingly completely unconcerned with the many eyes on him, the hunter swiftly made his way to the tavern overlooking the central plaza of the town, a place called The Lord’s Stag. The figure of a leaping hart was carved into the hanging sign that proclaimed its name, the wood badly weather-beaten so that its name appeared to be LOST in the nascent morning light.
With a creak of hinges that had not been oiled in a very long time, the hunter pushed open the wooden door of the tavern. Even at this early hour it was nearly half full. The tavern was the main—the only—center of social activity in the town.
A rosy hearth in the center of the room cast dull, flickering light over the inhabitants, all of whom were well supplied with ale and food. Soon the barkeeper would push coals over the flames crackling in the hearth, cooling it so as to make the tavern a tolerable place to dwell in during a hot summer’s day. But a chill tendril of the night still lingered in the room for now.
Immediately the proprietor, a brown-skinned man with gray-threaded locs, came to the hunter. The proprietor was ready with an offer of drinks and three good meals for the day, a comfortable single room for the night to go with the fare.
The tavern made much of its profit from these visitors. If they could be persuaded to stay and spend their gold, as seemed very possible with this strange hunter, it was always a lucky thing—provided that they brought no misfortune with them.
And so it was with an air of great expectation that the proprietor looked back at the hunter, to see how his offer might be received.
Almost all in the main room of the tavern looked up from their breakfasts and leaned towards the hunter as flowers seeking the sun, eager to hear what brought this man to this backwater they named theirs. Only the hooded figure in the darkest corner of the tavern seemed uninterested, taking another deep pull of wine from her bottle as if she wished to drown herself in its red.
When the hunter requested rooms for five days, adding that he might perhaps stay longer after that, the gasp of the assembled was audible. Barring storms of snow or ice, few travelers had ever stayed in their town longer than a night to rest their feet and water their throat. What could this mysterious, charming hunter possibly be here for?
“What brings you to our humble hamlet, saer?” the proprietor asked, carefully assessing the hunter’s manner, the bright, proud image that he exuded like radiance made flesh.
The proprietor was far more used to dealing with the dour, unsmiling sort that made up most of the town’s guests. In fact, he’d dealt with an example of that very type shortly beforehand: the hooded figure bent over her bottle of wine in the darkest corner of the tavern.
That figure’s boots had been heavily coated with road-dust too, but her surly expression had immediately discouraged any questioning.
She’d only asked for a hot meal and a room, offering no insight nor illumination as to why she’d made her way to this place. As soon as she had emerged from her room that morning, she had immediately secreted herself in that dark corner, seeming most comfortable when cloaked in shadows.
Thus tucked away, she had taken out a bottle of wine from her pack, neatly uncorking it with a dagger's pointed tip—her manner brooked little questioning or argument, though she was hardly the first the proprietor had encountered who started on the bottle before the sun was up. They’d avoided the worst of it in this town, but folk had fallen on tough times in the last several years. The proprietor understood all too well why many turned to the solace of drink, having lost everything else dear to them.
“Please, call me Wyll—Wyll with a ‘y’,” the hunter said now, with an easy, mellifluous warmth.
Being addressed as a noble still discomfited the hunter, even after all these years. That was a life that was his no longer. Yet—whose was his life?
“I’m hunting a vampire,” the hunter Wyll continued, returning his attention to the present moment, to the task that stood in front of him. To why he had come to this distant, insignificant place. “My information places it in this area, either in the town or the surrounding forest.”
The proprietor’s responding shiver was visible. A shudder went through the room, merriment departing through the ajar windows and door, as those in the tavern considered that their peaceful town might harbor such a wretched thing.
A creature of night preying upon what they held most dear! It seemed an impossible thing, like a story from a book come to all-too-vivid life, horrifying in its awful reality. But then again, a radiant, smiling hunter such as this man coming to their town seemed just as improbable. Who was to say that he had not stepped out of a storybook himself?
“Please, saer—Wyll—if there is anything I may do to assist, please let me know,” the proprietor said, dearly hoping that he would not actually be pressed into service.
The proprietor had always been a voracious reader, the house he shared with his wife filled floor-to-ceiling with books, but certain things were far better left to ink and parchment than to gruesome reality, he thought.
“Thank you, but all I require from you in the way of assistance is a hearty breakfast, one that will keep me going for some hours. Perhaps some coffee if you have it.” Wyll smiled.
At his self-assured words, some of the tension released from the room like a breath being let out, though the fear still remained below the usual chatter and clatter of the tavern. The townspeople were accustomed to such troubles as loose chickens and rumors of what howled hungrily in the wood beyond the town, not the silent lurking threat of a vampire.
That such a predator of the night could exist here had never occurred to any of them. What occupied their fears were ordinary things like beasts and ghosts that lurked at the very edges of the day but rarely ever came near, rarely ever made themselves known under the stark, burning gaze of the day.
Dawn’s coming, blossoming bright and rose-red, was supposed to drive those prowling fears away, was supposed to make such things seem only like a child’s fairy tale—not bring news that such horrors might live in their peaceful little town.
Cold had crept down the proprietor’s spine at the news that a vampire might lurk near. He did his best to cover his fear, letting out a chuckle that sounded anxious even to his own ears.
“Of course! Sit where you like and I shall bring all that to you, and more.”
Half the tavern’s patrons hoped the hunter might sit by them so that they might hear of the grand glorious tales he must have of the many fearsome foes he’d encountered. The other half prayed to their various Gods that he would sit far away from them, wanting to be as distant from this whole vampire business as possible.
If night had been nearly upon them, it would have been even easier to imagine it, a step away from reality. As it was, the tavern was full of active imaginations.
The silent lurking threat of a vampire’s fangs, poised to drain away one’s lifeblood and destroy everything one held dear. Ready to claw and bite into the ventricles and chambers of one’s heart, ready to turn it all to unliving death, ready to make a sun-hated pariah of anyone who was unlucky enough to survive their encounter with that fanged monster.
Many of those in the tavern—mostly the praying ones—anxiously ran their fingers over their necks, thinking of that very vampire’s fangs puncturing their soft mortal skin like a ripe, juicy peach; the fright was a near-tangible thing in the tavern. But a few shivered in excitement and anticipation, those emotions mingling with their fear. In the end, they weren’t such different things.
To many of the patrons’ clear relief, Wyll decided upon the shadowiest corner of the tavern, utterly distant from the dying flames of the hearth. Through the windows, the sky was brightening, not a single scudding cloud breaking its clean blue.
Wyll sat down at the table next to the hooded figure’s. The two of them were the only souls in this tavern who had not spent their entire lives in this town.
“If you’re hoping to find your quarry here, you’ll be sorely disappointed,” the hooded figure said.
She pulled her hood down, revealing cool, piercing green eyes. A faded scar curved over one cheek, crossing the bridge of her nose. Her dark hair was cropped at the neck, ends slightly uneven as if the cutting had been done on her own, and her pointed ears poked past her hair, somewhat shorter than most elves’ ears were. There were thin, fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. It was never easy to tell half-elves’ age, but she was likely in her forties or fifties.
In his short time here, Wyll had already surmised that elves were a rarity here. Most in this tavern seemed to be humans; there were also a few tieflings and halflings here.
“I was only curious about the vintage you have there, friend,” he said, giving her a warm smile. “Ashaba Dusk, if my reading of the label is correct. It’s bottled in Sembia, is it not? Not something you’d find so easily in these lands, save in the cellars of the very rich. I can hardly blame you for cracking it open so early!”
The nameless woman let out a noise that was half annoyance, half amusement. Wyll noted that her teeth were rather sharper than most humans’ or elves’.
“Not many monster hunters know their wines. Most seem satisfied to knock back the cheapest swill, whatever can get them drunk quickest…”
“I’m not most monster hunters,” he said.
In his observant way, Wyll noted the characteristic vowels of her accent, how her cadence of speech transported him to the place that he had once called home a very long time ago.
His eye, the one of soft brown, caught upon her hand, the wound that cored it straight through as a cruel black stigmata. She saw where his gaze went and drew her hand back, moving it under the table.
Wyll made no comment. He knew very well that scars took many different forms.
The proprietor quickly rustled up a breakfast of scrambled eggs and cinnamon-spiced oatmeal for him, accompanied by a mug of steaming hot coffee that burst sweet and vigorous upon Wyll’s tongue.
Once Wyll had taken a deep drink of coffee, he spoke again. His voice was pitched low so she was the only other in the tavern who could hear him.
(Regardless, quite a few were valiantly trying their best to listen in, to learn everything they could of this mysterious, charming hunter—or to learn more about the vampiric threat that apparently lurked at their doors).
“Has there been anything amiss in your time here?”
“Unexplained disappearances or virgins with bloody necks?” the half-elf said dryly. But she didn’t dismiss his question. A thoughtful expression came over her face as she continued, seemingly sorting through her memories of all she had encountered in her short time here. “No. None of that. I’ve only been here for a night and all I can say is that this is exactly the quaint, sleepy town that it appears to be…”
“So it is. May I ask what brings you here?”
At that, her expression turned cold once again, shuttering completely, closing him out as if they’d never exchanged a word. Her pointed ears flicked slightly with irritation. “You’re here to stake a vampire. Best not get distracted, friend.”
With that she drained the bottle of wine, then stood. A motion of her hand, reaching into her pocket, then a clink of silver coin on the table. She swept out of the tavern and went out into the day.
Unperturbed, Wyll returned to his meal. In his time he had grown used to the various moods of the travelers and adventurers that he encountered.
Some were happy to regale you with stories of everything and everyone they had encountered over the past tendays, to the point their laborious detail drove you to sleep (or else to seek a hasty excuse to escape the conversation). Most were more tempered in their speech though the truth in their words could not be so easily gleaned; nearly everyone had their own motives, was the protagonist of their own story. Though Wyll dearly hoped that none he encountered were dealing with what lurked at his shoulder, what looked out of the stone eye in his head, what filled his veins with fiery, unnatural power.
And some were like this half-elf, all sharp words and biting wit—often coupled with uncanny skills of observation. If he encountered her again in his time in this town, he’d have to figure out how to convince her to speak truthfully of anything amiss she had encountered.
Still, that could wait, he decided. Wyll had always had good instincts, honed to a gleaming knife’s edge by the past thirteen years on the frontiers, and he doubted she was who he sought, not with how she’d gone out into the blazing morning without a second thought. Though—what did she seek?
Perhaps he’d find out in his time here. Perhaps that story would remain unread to him, ever-concealed in shadow.
Well-used to bantering with proprietors and barkeepers and all sorts that catered to travelers, Wyll engaged the proprietor in conversation. His name was Lonnun.
Wyll asked after which traders in town could be relied upon to offer trustworthy deals. That information gained, Wyll thanked the proprietor warmly for the meal, quickly and eagerly clearing his plate.
The proprietor’s trepidation was clear and so Wyll assured him that none in this town would see harm but for those that sought to bring it upon others. The man nearly believed him, Wyll thought.
Once he had finished his meal, Wyll set down his empty mug. Before he could rise to his feet, a human woman with long braids approached his table, asking him eagerly whether he had any good stories of his travels. When he appraised the room he saw that many were nodding in agreement with her question, the curiosity plain on their faces.
By now it was instinctual to reshape, rewrite all he had gone through into the form of stories fit for others’ ears; to rework all he had suffered into a narrative he could endure living within. And as for what Wyll could not reshape—well, that did not merit mention, even if he had been able to move his tongue freely in all matters fixed and unfixed.
The day stretched out full and long in front of him. A vampire would hardly have such an easy time fleeing under the searing gaze of the sun. And perhaps Wyll would be able to glean something from the townspeople’s talk. Perhaps one of them would let drop a clue that they did not even realize was a clue, some tale of unexplained slaughter or red eyes sighted in the night. Many of his hunts over the years had been made far easier by those very sorts of revelations.
And so he moved to the middle of the room, near the hearth, all their eyes upon him, all their ears perked up, eager for anything they could learn of him.
First, the other patrons in the tavern inquired where he had come from.
Wyll told them that he was from the south, from the city of Baldur’s Gate. He had left that place, backdrop to so many legends the townspeople knew, in order to strike out on his own.
To their great disappointment, he had not been present in the city during the invasion of the Absolute. Wyll told them, truthfully, that he had left the city several years before and so he could not tell them anything of the triumph against the illithid monsters that had threatened the Coast, nor the end of that plan of alien conquest and ruthless domination known as the Grand Design.
But Wyll had many other stories that drew his audience in, all of them listening rapt with wide eyes. He told them of his triumph over a great green dragon that he named only as Old Gnawbone, of his destruction of a lich tormenting a town not unlike theirs with its skeletal servants, even of his battles with dinosaurs deep in the wilds.
It lifted something in Wyll, to speak so frankly of something that he had done no matter how much the truth must be whittled down and shaped into a form suitable for others’ ears. His heart soared to be seen and heard in this way no matter that the words he spoke were only a small slice of the truth, all else laying in impassable shadow.
“And you managed all that alone? Are you a wizard or a sorcerer?” one of the patrons asked.
Wyll wondered if the thought crossed any of their minds, that the heroic hunter he seemed to be might actually be a warlock that drew the well of his power from the Hells. But—no one had really seen him for what he really was in a very long time, and there was no indication that would change now.
And so he laughed heartily and hoped none would look too closely at the stone that rested in his right eye socket. “Goodness, I’m no one so special, I assure you! When I was a boy, my father taught me the ways of blade and bow. I’ve honed his lessons by learning the land.” He flexed his fingers illustratively. “I can summon sharp thorns and creeping vines to entangle my enemies, or turn my skin to hard bark so their blows glance off me harmlessly.”
A simple rewriting of the truth—substituting tangling green for Hadar's cold devouring darkness; putting the spell Barkskin in place of the chill protection of Armor of Agathys; the Coast’s earthly power for that of the Hells. The closest thing to the truth he could safely speak.
By the time the patrons began to let up on Wyll with their questioning, it was mid-morning. Little more of interest was to be found in most of the other conversations that took place in the tavern that morning, other than the news that the tavern's mouser was expecting kittens. People began to file out of the tavern, reluctantly having to start on their duties for the day.
At the hearth, someone took up strumming a lute, breaking the silence that had filled the tavern ever so briefly. They were a tiefling, young and hesitant, likely too nervous to practice in front of the crowd that had filled the tavern moments earlier.
Wyll took a long drink of the new cup of coffee the proprietor had brought him, savoring its hot glide down his throat, and sat back in his chair to listen to the song filling the room.
Lacking in training but not in unbridled passion, the would-be bard embarked upon a lengthy ballad. Its subject was the fall of the Absolute years ago.
Wyll had always enjoyed stories of heroism and the triumph of good over evil, and so he knew the tune of this song well even if the local variation was different from all the versions he’d heard before (and somewhat more pitchy). Under his breath he hummed along to the song.
He’d heard several variations of this tale over the past six years.
Some named the Blade of Frontiers as one of those that had saved the Coast, which Wyll knew very well was complete nonsense—but he’d given up on correcting those misguided singers long ago. The Blade had a reputation, one that drowned out all sight of Wyll. He'd never fought to be flattered or showered with roses; he'd only ever fought to save lives. Even if it was only for the barest, merest of moments, Wyll wished very much to be known truly however he could; for others to see the man that lay beneath the shining face of the Blade.
Now, the young bard sang, gaining confidence as they sank into the notes and melodies of the song.
Those fearless, ferocious lionhearts that had triumphed against the Chosen of the Dead Three, breaking the Elder Brain they had made their bloody instrument! Those death-worshiping villains that would have turned every soul on the Sword Coast to fodder for their charnel Gods, finally stopped by these valiant, triumphant heroes’ righteous slaughter. One of these heroes, their leader, a Bhaalspawn themself, breaking ranks with their murderous heritage to redeem themself just as their kin Gorion’s Ward had a century ago.
These verses were familiar to Wyll. With few lyrical variations, the Bhaalspawn hero figured prominently in nearly all of the ballads. Their identity varied throughout the songs, but they were often depicted as a white-scaled dragonborn, hide streaked with crimson the precise shade of blood, sorcery thundering and cracking through all that stood in their path.
The next verses of the ballad moved from the Bhaalspawn’s myriad virtues and violences to their traveling companions.
A veteran paladin of the Hellriders, who wielded a sword that burned with his devotion to protect the innocent, smiting all that stood in his party's path.
A revenant cleric of Selûne, rumored to have been returned to life not by her moonlit Goddess but by the fell machinations of the Lord of Bones. Nevertheless she had called on Selûne’s moonlit radiance to cleanse the Coast of the illithid conspiracy that blighted it, her lost lover returned to her side.
A drow traitor to the Absolute, once puppeted by that blood-soaked devotee, daughter, death-bringer of Bhaal. Orin the Red, she who had flooded the Gate’s cobblestones with red. That so-called traitor, gaining revenge for all she had undergone at the hands of that slayer, purging every last cultist that crossed her.
A lycanthropic bard, friend to druids and songstresses alike. Rending her enemies with song and claw alike, counting this as simply another blood-soaked chapter of the long life she had lived.
And, finally, the champion Karlach, who figured prominently in most of these ballads. Often enough that Wyll was also certain the story of her was true. Though he suspected there was more to the story than what the bards sang of—there usually was.
She was said to be seven feet tall with the strength of seven men, a hero whose name would rest in legend for many decades to come. Long ago, or so the ballads claimed, Karlach had been the loyal guard of Enver Gortash, he who had held Baldur’s Gate with the Black Hand of Bane. He who had betrayed her as soon as she’d learned of his treacherous plans, condemning her to be nothing more than another soul sacrificed to the Grand Design—but for the nameless force that had protected her and her party from the Elder Brain’s influence.
Some claimed that protection was simply nothing more than devotion to the Gods (which particular God it seemed to be depended on the speaker’s preference). Wyll privately thought that particular interpretation was nothing more than a cleric’s tale meant to fill temple-boxes with gold for it seemed that these heroes had either served disparate Gods or none at all. He sometimes wondered if he’d ever find out the truth of this distant tale, if the stories of these heroes only cast light upon narrow slices of the truth. If there was far more swimming in the tenebrous depths of them beneath the surface, just as there was for the Blade.
The ballad concluded on another enduring image Wyll was well familiar with: Karlach’s clawed hand holding Gortash's still-sneering head, dripping with blood, up in front of the people of the Gate as she resoundingly declared their freedom from his tyranny.
As the bard Taliesin descended into silence, Wyll stood, the words of the song still dancing through his head. Briefly Wyll wondered about the state of Baldur’s Gate, of the fate of its Grand Duke. But that was not for him to know, not anymore.
The proprietor Lonnun had read many stories of would-be heroes who had bargained with great unknowable forces for powers that lay beyond the ken of what any ordinary mortal could claim for themself. And so he knew that heroes did not appear out of thin air.
True, in his own words, this Wyll seemed like a genuine hero—but what of the truth that lay beyond his own tales of himself?
Lonnun thought briefly of his own son who had departed a year ago for the wondrous city of Waterdeep in the south to study magic. He wondered if this young man’s family missed him as much as he did his own son.
Now he approached Wyll, who had just dropped a fistful of coins into the young bard Taliesin’s hand.
Wyll turned to Lonnun, inquiring after whether there were any good tailors in town, as his clothes were road-worn and sorely in need of repair, perhaps even replacement. And so Lonnun told Wyll that yes, there was someone in town who served as tailor, dressmaker, clothier, and anything else the townspeople might need for their outfitting.
This someone was an odd, flighty elf that did good work despite his many idiosyncrasies. He’d come to the town a few years back and had been the talk of many tendays before they had inevitably gotten used to him, absorbing him into the peaceful fabric of their little village. He was called Saer Ancunín.
Wyll thanked Lonnun warmly and went on his way.
Lonnun watched him go, hoping the hunter’s business would conclude quickly and without harm to the town. He hoped also that this Wyll was truly the hero he seemed to be.