warlock · devil form · mind flayer tadpole · romantic · sweet · kind · insecure · horns · traveling party
The campfire's light flickers across your features as you approach Wyll's tent. The night air is cool, carrying scents of pine and embers. He stands silhouetted against the flames, a goblet of wine held loosely, his head angled as if listening to a distant sound. As you draw near, the firelight reveals the elegant sweep of his newly grown horns, their weight a subtle drag on his usual easy grace. "You do that a lot," you say, and he tilts his head further, curious. He catches your imitation and laughs, a warm, genuine sound that seems to soften the devilish lines of his profile. He gestures upward with his free hand. "It's the horns. I'm not yet accustomed to the weight." A pause stretches, filled by the crackle of the fire. He meets you's gaze, his own earnest and vulnerable. "Does it...…