*Level Three*
William sighed as a shimmering blue and purple panel materialized before his eyes, outlining his stats, feats, cantrips, and spells.
Considering the need for a quick escape should an enemy close the distance, he chose the level 2 spell Misty Step along with the Twinned Spell Metamagic.
Standing in place, he studied his stat sheet intently, weighing the merits of his selections, and lingered in thought as he reviewed the choices before finalizing them.
[CHARACTER SHEET — WILLIAM]
Race: Half-Drow (Half-Elf)
Class: Aberrant Mind Sorcerer
Level: 3
Alignment: Neutral
Background: Sage
Origin: A half-drow marked by alien whispers that coil through his thoughts like living scripture.
[STATS]
Attribute – Value – Modifier
Strength – 8 (–1)
Dexterity – 16 (+3)
Constitution – 14 (+2)
Intelligence – 12 (+1)
Wisdom – 10 (+0)
Charisma – 16 (+3)
[CORE TRAITS]
Fey Ancestry
Immune to magical sleep; advantage on saving throws against being charmed.
Darkvision
Can see in darkness up to 60 feet.
Drow Heritage
Gains Dancing Lights cantrip.
Telepathic Speech
Can communicate telepathically with a chosen creature within 30 feet.
[PROFICIENCIES]
Saving Throws: Constitution, Charisma
Skills: Arcana, History, Insight, Deception, Perception, Stealth
[SORCERY FEATURES]
Sorcery Points: 3
Used to fuel Metamagic and bend spells beyond their natural limits.
[METAMAGIC]
Quicken Spell
William can compress a spell into a heartbeat, casting it as a Bonus Action by spending Sorcery Points.
Twinned Spell
When William casts a spell that targets only one creature, he can split the effect between two targets simultaneously.
[SPELL LIST]
Cantrips
Dancing Lights (racial)
Mage Hand
Minor Illusion
Fire Bolt
Prestidigitation
Level 1 Spells
Innate Aberrant Spells (Always Known):
Arms of Hadar
Writhing void-tendrils erupt outward, crushing and clawing at nearby enemies while dragging shadows across the ground.
Dissonant Whispers
A psychic intrusion that floods the target with alien terror, forcing them to flee as their mind screams.
Darkness
A sphere of absolute shadow that blinds creatures within. Ranged attacks cannot pass through it.
Level 2 Spells
Misty Step
William dissolves into a ripple of warped space and reappears up to 30 feet away.
William let the choice settle deep within him.
A final thought, a quiet affirmation, and the system responded.
The shimmering panel of blue and violet light rippled once, as if nodding in acknowledgment, before fracturing into countless drifting motes that floated lazily like fireflies.
They brushed against his skin, seeping into muscle and bone with a subtle warmth before fading.
One by one, they winked out, dissolving into the air, leaving behind only the scarred grove and the sound of his own strained breathing.
When the last mote vanished, his legs gave way.
Strength fled in an instant, not draining but collapsing entirely, as though the invisible framework that held him upright had been stripped away.
His knees struck the ground with a jolt, and he barely managed to drive his longsword into the earth, both hands clutching the hilt as the world spun before him.
Fatigue crashed over him in a crushing wave, not the soreness of muscles or the burn of breathless lungs, but a deeper, marrow-deep exhaustion that hollowed him from within, rendering his limbs leaden and his thoughts sluggish and syrup-thick.
Every blink felt like a gamble, each breath a battle he was losing.
"I'm… fine," he tried, but it escaped only as a whisper of air.
His head sagged forward, nearly resting against the pommel, the edges of the world dimming to shadow.
Somewhere beyond his haze, warmth pressed close, Owlbert.
The baby owlbear nuzzled his cheek with delicate care, the curve of his beak tracing William's temple in silent inquiry, a soft, worried hoot vibrating gently through the feathers against his skin.
William managed the faintest of smiles.
"Yeah," he murmured, the word slurred and heavy on his tongue. "Still here."
That was the last flicker of awareness before the darkness surged up and swallowed him whole. Sleep claimed him utterly.
He dreamed of falling, not through air, but through a vast, suffocating silence, a boundless stillness pressing from every side, at once soothing and terrifying. His body felt far away, almost alien, as though it belonged to another entirely.
Faint voices drifted at the edges of that void, shouts, commands, the metallic clash of armor.
Then the sensation shifted. Rough, calloused hands hooked beneath his arms, dragging him over uneven ground. A flash of pain ignited in his shoulder before surrendering to the crushing weight of exhaustion. Between labored breaths, a voice muttered, strained yet resolute.
"By the Hells, you weigh more than you look…"
Wyll.
Leather straps groaned. Boots scuffed against dirt and stone. The stench of blood, goblin and otherwise, hung thick in the air.
Step by stubborn step, Wyll hauled him onward, ignoring the protest of his own weary limbs. Slowly, the chaos of the battlefield faded, replaced by the grim quiet of the wounded. William was eased onto a rough cot, nothing more than coarse fabric stretched over a crude wooden frame, yet it felt like the softest of beds as he sank into its embrace.
A blanket settled over him. Fingers pressed to his throat, checking for breath. Somewhere nearby, someone whispered a prayer.
Then night descended, draping the grove in a shroud of living darkness.
The fires dwindled to faint glows, their once-bright flames reduced to embers that cast long, restless shadows.
The Tiefling refugees huddled together in uneasy clusters, sleep claiming them only after grief and terror had drained every last ounce of strength.
Soft groans and fragmented murmurs rose from their dreams, weaving into the symphony of chirping insects and the distant rustle of forest life. In that heavy stillness, something stirred.
A shadow glided between tents and bedrolls, moving with the silence of a breath held too long.
It paused intermittently, head cocked, tasting the air with senses honed to predatory precision.
The scent of blood lingered everywhere, but most was stale, dried to nothing worth savoring. And then it halted.
William lay motionless, his slow, steady breaths lifting his chest, his throat bare and vulnerable in slumber.
Owlbert was absent, off hunting, no doubt, leaving him utterly defenseless.
The shadow emerged into the dim firelight. Astarion. Moonlight kissed the sharp planes of his face, turning his white hair to silver.
His leather armor was pristine amid the ruin, marred only by the dark stains at his collar and the faint glisten of fresh crimson at his lips.
His eyes blazed a deep, hungry red as he gazed at William, his features drawn taut with a feral, unmasked longing.
"So," he murmured, voice a silken thread laced with danger. "You're the intriguing one."
He sank to one knee beside the cot, head tilting as his keen gaze lingered on the steady rhythm beneath William's skin. The pulse beat temptingly at the jugular, vibrant and alive. Astarion inhaled slowly, savoring the heady scent.
No wards. No consent. No eyes to see.
Perfect.
In an instant, he moved, swift as shadow, pressing in close before sinking his fangs into William's neck.
Warm, rich blood surged forth, flooding his senses in a rush of stolen vitality. Eyes fluttering shut, Astarion drank deeply, the gnawing hunger that had haunted him since sunset easing with every swallow. Yet he remained precise, measured, only enough to quiet the craving without crossing the line.
With a quiet exhale, he drew back, tongue brushing over the punctures until only the faintest sign remained.
William stirred faintly, a crease forming between his brows, but did not wake.
Astarion rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a ghost of satisfaction curving his lips.
"There," he breathed. "No harm done."
His eyes swept the slumbering camp before returning to William.
"After all," he murmured lightly, already melting into the darkness, "a vampire hunt would be terribly inconvenient."
And the night swallowed him whole.
Dreams reached William in jagged, unrelenting fragments.
First came the stone corridors, pale, elegant, and mercilessly beautiful.
The Underdark estate of his birth unfolded in frigid precision, its obsidian floors polished to a mirror sheen, violet witchlight suspended in flawless symmetry. Every surface returned his image: a Half-Drow child holding himself too rigidly, shoulders squared with premature resolve.
His parents never needed to raise their voices. His father's gaze was a scalpel, cold, precise, and dismissive, sliding past him as if already assessing the meager worth he might offer. His mother's disappointment was subtler but no less oppressive, a constant pressure between his shoulder blades urging him forward, denying him any chance to breathe.
"Again," she commanded whenever he faltered. Again, when his spell sputtered. Again, when his focus wavered. Again, when his sisters smiled.
They were striking, effortlessly so, their magic flourishing like living art, each movement steeped in shadow, venom, and grace. Their laughter was never gentle.
Discipline came without delay. An incorrect incantation brought a stinging blow across his knuckles. A failed summoning left him sprawled on the floor, lungs searing as psychic backlash tore through him, while his sisters observed in silence, their heads inclined in curiosity rather than concern.
"Potential reveals itself," one of them had whispered once, crouching beside him as he trembled. "And yours keeps hiding."
The household ceased to notice him long before they abandoned their tests. Lessons grew shorter, expectations diminished, and his presence faded into the background like a stubborn, unwanted stain they could never scrub away quickly enough.
Then came the verdict.
No ceremony. No anger. Only a quiet decision made over wine and strategy as he stood silently at the edge of the chamber.
"He lacks the spark," his father declared, already turning his back.
"Exile will either destroy him," his mother replied evenly, "or compel him to make something of himself; either way, our family benefits."
Neither possibility stirred their concern.
The gates opened, and the Underdark consumed him entirely. No escort. No farewell. Only the cold and the echo of finality reverberating in his ears as the stone closed behind him.
William fell…
And awoke with a gasp.
His body shot upright with a sharp inhale, heart pounding violently against his ribs. For a disorienting moment, the dream clung to him like cobwebs, phantom shadows pressing close, imagined eyes fixed upon him.
Then came the pain.
A small, sharp twinge at his neck made him hiss, his fingers flying instinctively to the spot.
Tender.
Sensitive.
Real.
It anchored him.
The grove sharpened into focus, morning light cascading through the leaves, the air alive with the hum of activity.
Tieflings moved with determined purpose, driving new stakes into the earth, reinforcing barriers with scavenged timber and stone.
Druids spoke in low, intent murmurs, coaxing thorny growth into thicker, more formidable walls along the perimeter.
The chaos of battle had shifted into the rhythm of preparation.
Life, stubborn and unyielding, pressed forward.
William released a slow breath, tension easing from his shoulders as the dream finally loosened its hold.
Then, without warning, the brush to his left erupted.
"…What the…"
A streak of feathers and fierce energy burst into the clearing, Owlbert, the baby owlbear, charging forward with triumphant speed.
He skidded to a halt before William, chest puffed out, eyes gleaming, something large and unfortunate dangling from his beak.
With a self-assured huff, he dropped the fresh kill at William's feet, where it landed with a soft, wet thud.
Owlbert fixed him with an expectant stare, a wordless command clear in his gaze: Eat. Recover. Do better.
William blinked once, then a rough but genuine laugh escaped him, cutting through the lingering chill of the dream.
"…You're very aggressive about breakfast," he muttered.
Owlbert hooted sharply, feathers fluffing in feigned offense, nudging the offering closer with his beak.
William sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah," he said quietly, glancing around the waking grove. "I'm still here."
Satisfied, Owlbert preened, standing vigilant as William gathered himself, the shadows of the past receding in the light of the present.
William gazed at the offering for a long, thoughtful moment before lifting his eyes to Owlbert.
"…You hunted this," he said, the words deliberate.
Owlbert puffed his chest with pride, releasing a sharp, triumphant hoot and jabbing the rabbit with his beak as if insulted that the question even needed asking.
"Right. Of course you did." William's sigh was tinged with amusement as he reached for the carcass. "I should have known better than to doubt you."
He lifted the rabbit carefully, surprised by its heft, heavier than it appeared, dense and powerfully muscled in a way that made his brow crease briefly before his stomach interrupted with a loud, insistent growl, pushing aside any lingering questions.
"Food first," he murmured. "Questions later."
The grove bustled with morning life, yet none paid him more than a passing glance as he settled beside a low, rekindled cookfire.
His hands moved with the efficiency of practiced skill, if not artistry, skinning, cleaning, portioning, each motion grounding him, drawing him back into his body after a night of tangled dreams, blood, and exhaustion.
Owlbert remained close, talons flexing restlessly in the dirt, golden eyes fixed on every cut with unwavering, hawk-like focus.
"I see you," William said dryly. "You'll get your share. I wouldn't dare steal from my hunter."
A deep, satisfied rumble resonated from the owlbear's chest.
William skewered the meat over the flame, letting it roast slowly.
Fat sizzled and hissed where it met the coals, sending up a mouthwatering aroma that curled into the air.
With what little he had, he seasoned it, crushed herbs gathered from the grove, a precious pinch of salt earned earlier in trade for a simple cantrip and waited as the promise of the meal filled the clearing.
The wait had been almost unbearable, each passing moment stretching into an eternity.
At last, the meat was ready, perfectly browned, steaming, and fragrant, and William wasted no time pulling it free, splitting it cleanly down the middle.
Without hesitation, he handed Owlbert a generous portion.
"There," he said warmly. "You've earned it."
Owlbert seized it at once, tearing in with unrestrained enthusiasm, feathers fluffing in pure delight as he devoured his reward.
William took his own share, but the first bite stopped him in his tracks.
His eyes widened, pupils flaring as the flavor detonated on his tongue, rich, deep, and impossibly savory for rabbit.
Beneath it lurked a curious sharpness, something wild and metallic-bright, like the electric tang of a thunderstorm or the taste of fresh blood from a bitten lip.
"…What in the Hells," he muttered around a second, eager bite.
The meat was exquisitely tender, nearly melting, yet carried a satisfying density that seemed to resonate with him on some primal level.
A comforting warmth spread through his chest as he chewed, not magic, not exactly, but invigorating, grounding, as though something essential had just clicked into place.
Frowning slightly, he eyed the rest of the meat.
"That's… not normal," he murmured, before promptly taking another mouthful.
Hunger triumphed without question.
By the time he finished eating, fingers slick with grease, the lingering strangeness had faded beneath the simple satisfaction of being fed.
His body felt steadier, stronger, not healed entirely, but no longer hollowed out.
Owlbert meticulously cleaned his beak and let out a pleased, triumphant hoot before flopping down beside him like a warrior content after a hard-won victory.
William leaned back against the tree and exhaled slowly.
"Alright," he declared. "You hunt. I cook. That's the deal."
Owlbert chirped in sleepy agreement, already drifting off in the warm sunlight.
William closed his eyes, letting the heat seep into his bones, unaware that somewhere deep within the Weave, a curse was quietly unraveling at last.
Far from the grove, within the tangled, cruel logic of fey magic, a name vanished from a ledger of grudges.
Once, there had been a redcap, violent, vicious, cursed for its excesses, stripped of form and murderous joy, bound into the body of a rabbit until time or misfortune claimed it.
Today, misfortune had arrived on feathered wings.
And William, blissfully ignorant, wiped his hands on the grass and thought only that breakfast had been unusually good.