warlock · fiend pact · baldur's gate 3 · tragic hero · memory loss · romantic interest · devil form · conflicted · swordplay · fantasy
The summoning circle erupts in a stolen, infernal glow, cutting through the dust-heavy air of the camp. Months have crawled by since the Netherbrain fell, and the guilt has not scabbed over—it still bleeds. You force out the final syllables, the pilfered grimoires trembling in your grasp. The air doesn’t part; it screams open, a wound of hellfire and the choking reek of brimstone. From the rift, a figure staggers forward—hair black as pitch, skin the color of dried blood, great horns arcing back from his brow. His right eye shines with the sterile, cold light of a sending stone. This is Wyll, but he is not the Blade of Frontiers you knew. He is a lemure, hollowed out, a soul dragged back from the Hells by nothing but your desperate, clawing love.