Chapter Text
The night is cold in Baldur's Gate. A figure wrapped in a thick cloak wanders the city's dark streets alone, but the confidence in their step tells everyone with bad intent to let them pass unbothered. The gleaming broad sword at their side might have something to do with it as well.
The figure seems to be going straight ahead without sparing a glance left or right and a wide hood shrouds their face in darkness, but for a second the moon succeeds to throw her pale rays in their face. It is a man, a young man with dark skin and warm, brown eyes. Or rather eye, because only one of them has the spark of life in them. The other is dead, grey stone with a long, thin scar right next to it almost splitting his face in half. He is handsome, with the jawline and wide shoulders of a fairytale prince.
And it becomes evident that the man is indeed very aware of his surroundings, eye flicking from side to side without moving his head to give away his watchfulness.
Down here in the Lower City, only few know him, and he intends to keep it that way. In the Upper City however, he is known as Wyll Ravengard, oldest son and heir of Lord Ulder Ravengard. It is precisely for this reason that he has a scarf pulled up over mouth and nose in an effort to remain incognito. Impossible to risk rumours spreading of a lordling's son roaming the streets of the Lower City at night, far away from the safety of the well-guarded walls of his father's estate.
His breath fogs up in little clouds beneath the hood that he wears drawn up against the biting frost. Wyll has been assigned patrol tonight, scouring the city at a time of night that is favoured by all sorts of villains.
To his father's never-ending grievance has he recently joined a faction known as the Harpers. Now, every once in a while, they ask him to go on a quest and hunt down some monster or help out with patrols at night. It's his job to keep the citizens of The Gate as safe as he can.
Now, as his patrol is coming to an end, he hears a sound that is somewhere between a moan and a groan. If he had elven ears, they would have pricked at the noise and turned in its direction. But Wyll is only human, so he must hold his breath and tilt his head to the side and hope for another sound.
His patience is rewarded. There is a slap followed by another stifled moan. It comes from somewhere in the maze of dark alleyways to his right. Without hesitation Wyll puts a gloved hand on the handle of his sword and crouches low to step into the twilight of the passageway next to him. Experience has taught him the use of stealthiness in situations such as this. He creeps closer to the source of the noise. A rustling of clothes and low voices ahead tell him that he must be close.
He rounds a corner and hides in the shadow of a doorway when he sees two men against a wall between crates. The bigger one, a hulking, muscular man with beefy arms presses a smaller, lightly clad, silver-haired man with pointy ears against the bricks. The bigger one grabs the elf by the chin and trails kisses down his neck.
Wyll stops and blushes a little under his hood. Just a flesh-buyer with his whore. He turns to leave but stops dead when he hears a choked voice behind him.
"Stop, please-"
There's another slap and Wyll sees the silver haired man's head snap to the side by the force of a mighty backhand. "Shut up, bitch!"
"You're hurting me, this isn't what we agreed on, I don't want-"
"I don't care what you want. Now shut it", the brute growls. His hand wanders down from where he holds the man's chin to circle his throat and begins to squeeze. The elf's hands fly up to claw at the hand, and he begins to struggle, kicking his legs, words reduced to an awful choking sound.
Wyll decides he's seen enough. Drawing his blade, he steps out of his hideaway and calls "That is quite enough, I believe. You heard the man. Leave him be".
The thug spares Wyll barely a side-glance. Then he grabs the elf by the back of the neck to slam him mercilessly over a crate, stomach down. With his knees he forces the elf's legs apart and presses himself against him from behind with a grinding motion. Wyll can see absolute terror in the elf's wide eyes. "You want a turn, you'll have to wait", the brute growls at Wyll.
"Unhand him, this is your final warning!"
"Please-", says the elf bent awkwardly over the crate. His voice is strained and laced with desperation.
"I said shut it, bitch!" The brute grabs the elf by his silver hair and hits his head against the crate.
Blood immediately spurts from his forehead and nose. A cruel smile twists the assailant's face. When he lets go of the elf to unsheathe two jagged short swords, the elf curls in on the floor, fingers pressed to the wound on his forehead. Wyll loses sight of him between all the boxes and barrels in the heat of the fight that erupts now.
The thug swings his weapons with strength, but Wyll can tell that he's unexperienced in the true art of swordfight.
They exchange blow after blow until his opponent makes a mistake, misses, and hits the wall. Sparks fly at the scrape of metal on stone. Wyll performs an elegant, practiced spin and does swift work of finishing the fight.
His opponent goes down, unconscious or dead, Wyll can't be bothered to check. He sure made the man regret he ever laid a finger on the elf. Speaking of, Wyll thinks. Where did he go? He checks where he last saw him but finds the spot empty. Upon closer inspection he notices a thin trail of dark, red drops leading further into the alley.
Can't have gone far, he thinks. He should probably look and see if the man is alright or accompany him to the City Watch to bear witness.
Putting his sword away, he slowly continues down the street, checking left and right for signs of his mark. Eventually, it becomes clear that this path is a dead end. Wyll squints his eyes and cocks his head to the side again. Then he hears a noise from the very back corner. It sounds a bit like... someone is crying but trying very hard to do so quietly.
"Hello?" He calls into the night to announce himself. No need to scare the man further. "Are you there? I mean you no harm". Nothing. It's even more quiet than before, the shaky sobs having suddenly stopped. "I only seek to help, I swear it".
A disturbing chuckle is the answer. "Help? You can't help me, dear, no one can. Just leave".
"Not until I know you're safe. Ah, there you are", he rounds the barrel the elf is hiding behind. He's a mess with blood all over him, white hair in disarray. Red eyes betray that he's indeed been crying.
Wyll notices that he wears nothing but close-fitting, shapely leather pants and a thin white shirt with a ruffled neck. The laces have been torn open in the assault, and it hangs off his shoulder, exposing it to the cold air of deepwinter.
The elf visibly tenses at Wyll's approach and leans back into the wall, raising his hands. "Please, just- go away. I don't have anything with me as you can see and I'm not exactly in the state to... give you the attention you deserve. Just-", he wipes at his eyes, "just leave me alone. Please."
Unease settles heavily in Wyll’s stomach. "If that is truly your wish, then I will. But what happened to you wasn't right and I would see you to safety. May I accompany you home or to the City Watch?"
"No guards!" The elf says hastily. Wyll eyes him up and down but decides not to press the matter. In truth, the City Watch is not known to care for things happening in the Lower City and the thug is... dealt with.
"Home, then?"
"I don't exactly..." The elf grimaces, "have a home. I... work for the brothel down the road and... can't return until sunrise. A man's got to work, you know?"
Wyll frowns. "Surely they can't expect you to work in this... condition?" He gestures at the elf's sorry state.
"Oh, I assure you they can. And they do." A grim, twisted smile passes his face. Then he drags himself up. "If you'll excuse me, I really must be-" The rest of his sentence is cut off when he stumbles, groans, grips his head and would have fallen if Wyll hadn't caught him.
"Easy there!" he says and keeps the elf steady. A telltale sound of retching warns Wyll just in time to move his boots out of the way. He doesn't let go of the elf though. Because he's still fairly sure that he will keel over and faceplant to the ground, if he does. So instead, he gently and a bit awkwardly rubs the elf's back while he throws up the concerningly meagre contents of his stomach.
The little fit leaves his charge even more exhausted. Wyll can feel him tremble rather badly through the thin shirt.
"Alright, that's enough", he decides. "I can't in good conscience leave you here. You are clearly concussed. Come with me, I'll take you somewhere safe for the night where you can recover and go wherever you want in the morning."
It's unclear how much of this got through, but there's no protest or resistance as Wyll snakes one arm around the pale elf's back to grip him by the waist and drapes an arm around his neck. Together they disappear into the darkness of the alley, back into the direction from which they had come.
Final Note: Please please please, DO go to the City Watch aka the police if you've been assaulted.