William ducked, narrowly avoiding being cleaved in two by a goblin's scimitar, before pushing off the ground to create some distance.
Meanwhile, a surge of purple energy gathered along his fingers, which he raised to his mouth to invoke the spell
*Dissonant Whispers*.
The conjured energy spilled forth as an amethyst fog, curling outward to envelop the skull of the goblin that had attacked him.
The creature halted mid-charge as the fog invaded its mind, clouding its thoughts with madness and fear that gradually twisted its expression into one of pure terror.
With a trembling hand, the goblin dropped its weapon, clutching its head as it released a mindless roar of excruciating mental agony, an outburst so intense it momentarily stilled the surrounding skirmishes before the chaos resumed.
The goblin burst from the shrouding cloud of darkness, only to be felled by an errant crossbow bolt that pierced its neck with the force and finality of divine judgment. The impact hurled the ensorcelled creature aside, where it crashed to the ground in a twitching heap. As its body convulsed, the eerie purple light in its eyes dimmed and faded, vanishing alongside the last vestiges of its life.
From above came a new sound, boots striking stone with the sort of theatrical purpose that suggested someone had been practicing in front of a mirror.
William glanced up just as three figures crested a jagged rock formation, their silhouettes carved into the chaos like they'd timed their entrance for maximum dramatic effect.
The woman at the fore moved with all the coiled menace of someone who could smite you and then lecture you about your life choices, dark hair pulled back, half high-elf features locked in an expression that said she was both very busy and mildly disappointed.
Plate and faith clung to her like clingy traveling companions.
William recognized her instantly.
Shadowheart.
To her right glided a pale man who looked like he'd been sculpted from moonlight and arrogance, white curls perfectly in place despite the blood spatters, eyes sparkling with the kind of predatory amusement reserved for cats watching someone drop a plate.
His movements were languid, almost lazy, as though the battlefield were just a mildly energetic ballroom.
Astarion.
And to her left stood a human swaddled in robes of deep blue and fancy trim, posture impeccable, expression alert, the air bending around him like even physics wanted to be near him.
Raw magic hummed at his skin, contained and smug, like a star that knew it was the main character.
Gale.
They did not hesitate.
Shadowheart snapped through a sigil, firing off a lance of flame that smacked into a goblin booyagh mid-spell, the poor creature's expression freezing somewhere between "uh-oh" and "this is going to hurt."
An arrow immediately followed, aflame and self-assured, pinning the goblin's shoulder just in time for both fires to meet in a brief, spectacular handshake of destruction.
Heat piled on heat until it was less a battle and more a very aggressive cooking experiment, spell and steel teaming up like an overzealous chef and sous-chef to flambé the enemy.
Fire folded inward like it had second thoughts, only to explode from within the goblin, turning him into something between a campfire marshmallow and a tragic barbecue.
Blisters bubbled, skin crisped, and the poor creature's hide split like overdone roast pork before collapsing into a heap that smelled suspiciously like regret.
Astarion didn't so much move as glide, springing from his perch with the smug elegance of someone about to ruin your day and look good doing it.
Daggers flashed, and he disappeared into smoke and shadow, leaving behind the faintest echo of laughter, equal parts charming and ominous.
Gale, meanwhile, strolled forward like he was about to give a lecture on "Creative Applications of Goblin Disposal." Staff raised, he muttered syllables so precise they could have been measured with calipers.
Red motes flared to life around him, sharp and eager, like embers that had taken personal offense at the enemy.
They zipped away in perfect formation, each one performing an impressive mid-air swerve before smacking goblins with the kind of precision that suggested they'd done this before.
One goblin was lifted clean off the ground, another spun like a clumsy ballerina as its shield exploded, and a third simply folded mid-lunge as the magic popped against its chest.
The air around Gale thrummed, the weave pulling tight like an annoyed cat being picked up, as he drew and fired again and again, calmly unmaking the battlefield as if it were just another Tuesday.
Below, things were going poorly for the goblins.
Between William's conjured darkness, the horn's lingering echo, Wyll's flashing blade, and these three making an entrance like an adventuring boy band, the enemy's manic glee was cracking.
William felt the shift, the way laughter soured into fear, and grinned from the shadows, dagger dripping with dark blood.
This wasn't survival anymore.
This was cleanup.
The goblins broke.
Not in a dignified, cinematic slow-motion way, more like a rickety chair giving out under a very surprised uncle at a family reunion.
One moment they were charging, the next they were scattering like someone had shouted "free soup" in the opposite direction.
Hemmed in by the wall, the trees, and the utter chaos of their own failed assault, they began to drop like flies with bad life choices.
One shrieked as Wyll's blade introduced itself to its spine, another folded under a hail of crossbow bolts from above, and a third tried to run away only to disappear into William's personal cloud of doom with the kind of noise you don't want described in detail over dinner.
Then something big moved in the fog.
William turned just in time to see a bugbear leap out of the shadows, imagine a bear, a bug, and a pile of dirty laundry left in a damp basement for a week, and you're close.
Its massive arm swept at him, claws snatching for skin, the smell hitting first: wet fur, rusty pennies, and regret. William sidestepped, the claws slicing empty air where his head had been a split second earlier.
The bugbear roared and tried again.
William stepped in, jabbing his dagger up into the tender real estate under its eye, earning a howl and some frantic face-clutching. But William wasn't in the mood for retreat.
Oh no.
He shoved forward, both hands gripping the hilt, and slammed the pommel down like he was trying to get the last bit of ketchup out of the bottle.
Once. The blade slid deeper.
Again. Bone cracked with a noise that would haunt any ASMR channel forever.
The dagger sank into the bugbear's skull, and the roar ended abruptly, cut off mid-growl, like someone had yanked the plug on a very angry, very smelly appliance.
The massive body gave a theatrical shudder before collapsing with all the grace of a drunken lumberjack, the ground protesting under its weight.
Dark blood oozed from its head, steaming like an overenthusiastic tea kettle in the cooling air.
Silence fell, not the serene, birdsong kind, but the awkward "so… that just happened" kind.
The last goblin attempted a pitiful escape, dragging itself away and painting the dirt with a streak that could only be described as "gore chic." Its flight ended abruptly when a bolt from above nailed it down like an especially ugly rug.
It was over.
Panting, William wiped his blade on the bugbear's fur with the weary flourish of a man cleaning a fork after an especially messy dinner. He glanced toward the cliff.
"Open the gate!" Aradin croaked, adrenaline and disbelief making his voice sound like a bard halfway through losing his voice at a tavern singalong. "They're done!"
Above, Zevlor gave the clearing one last dramatic once-over, then raised a hand.
The vines shimmied.
Stone grumbled like it had just been woken from a nap.
The hidden gate yawned open.
Relief washed over the adventurers, who moments ago had been prey. Shoulders sagged, weapons lowered, and a collective "oh thank the gods" hung in the air.
William strolled to the forest edge, retrieving Owlbert from its leafy nest. The cub chirped softly, nuzzling into his chest with the blissful ignorance of someone who hadn't just witnessed a murder buffet.
Footsteps approached behind him.
He looked up as three figures emerged from the thinning haze like an oddly dramatic parade.
Shadowheart marched first, armor singed but posture screaming "I'm fine, thank you very much," her expression already retreating into the fortress of her own broody mystery.
Astarion strolled after her, daggers spotless, smile faintly smug, eyes flicking over William with the same disinterest one reserves for a wobbly chair in a waiting room.
Gale brought up the rear, staff balanced against his shoulder, gaze lingering just long enough to suggest he was deciding whether William was interesting or just another person who didn't understand the finer points of magical theory, before settling back into polite boredom.
They all nodded in passing. The kind of nod that says, "You exist. Congratulations."
As they headed for the opening gate, William let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, mostly because it had been stuck behind a lump of awkwardness.
Then Shadowheart paused.
Just for a heartbeat.
She turned, hand drifting to her chest, fingers brushing the mysterious trinket she kept hidden like an especially suspicious cough drop. It gave one faint, insistent pulse, apparently having strong opinions about William.
Her brow furrowed as she scanned his face, confusion slipping past her usual wall of "I don't do feelings." Then, as quickly as it came, the sensation vanished, like someone had unplugged the plot device.
Muttering something that probably wasn't "Nice seeing you," she spun on her heel and hurried after the others.
William stayed rooted to the spot, the moment clinging to him like a damp cloak he couldn't shake off.
Whatever had just happened was unspoken, unexplained, and, most annoyingly, unresolved.
Behind him, the grove's gate yawned open, promising safety in the way only a large stone archway in deep shadow can.
William stepped through the yawning stone archway into the Emerald Grove, and it was like walking from a tense family dinner into a spa run by trees.
Outside, the forest had been all sharp edges and "I will absolutely eat you" energy; inside, the air seemed to sigh in relief, thick with druidic magic that clung like a clingy aunt, rustling leaves muttering gossip to roots that were clearly in on it.
Power thrummed here, ancient, territorial, and giving off the vibe of a neighbor who watches you from the porch but won't call the cops… yet.
Owlbert picked up on it instantly.
The cub's feathers puffed out so fast he nearly doubled in size, sidling closer to William's leg as if proximity could ward off supernatural HOA rules.
His golden eyes darted from rock to branch, clearly sensing things he couldn't name but might later blame for nightmares.
He let out a soft chirp that somehow managed to sound like "wow" and "help" at the same time.
William slowed and crouched, a move that sent his soot-streaked white hair tumbling forward, catching the dappled light like moonlight spun by someone with a flair for drama.
He set a steady hand atop Owlbert's head, fingers brushing warm feathers with the air of a man who'd done this before and was still deciding if he regretted it.
Owlbert leaned in with a grateful hoot, pressing so close he might as well have been trying to merge with William.
"It's alright," William murmured, in the tone of someone reassuring a friend about a haunted house. "They're loud, not cruel."
Mostly.
The scene landed with the subtlety of a stage play finale.
Druids froze mid-task: one woman stopped mid-herb-adjustment like she'd just remembered she left the cauldron on, another nearly dropped an entire basket of roots.
More than a few eyes lingered on the blood-splattered, white-haired half-elf drow casually comforting an owlbear cub like this was just Tuesday.
Whispers rippled.
Sighs followed.
Somewhere, a squirrel dropped its nut in shock.
Several female druids traded glances they'd later swear were just harmless squints, the sort of looks one gets when trying to remember if they left the cauldron on, definitely not the kind born from sudden, inconvenient infatuation.
A half-elf drow with moon-white hair, a casual mastery of magic, and the sort of gentle animal magnetism that could make a squirrel swoon was, undeniably, a hazard to the grove's collective self-control.
No one dared speak, but the trees leaned in. William stood, blissfully unaware of the leafy gossip brewing, and wandered deeper into the sanctuary.
Owlbert shuffled close, trying his best to blend into William's leg like a feathery shadow, though his puffed plumage suggested he was one startled noise away from spontaneous flight.
To the cub, William wasn't just a bodyguard; he was a rock in a stream so ancient and noisy it had opinions about everything.
For now, that was not only enough, it was the whole cozy, bewildering package.