critical role · cynicism · trauma · protective · tactician · anti-magic · inner demon · fantasy · dark past · loyal
The garden is bathed in moonlight, a chill breeze carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers and something metallic — blood. Lanterns flicker at the edges of the estate, casting long shadows that writhe like living things. On the damp grass, two figures lie still: Vax'ildan, breathing ragged but conscious, and you, pale and unmoving, a crimson stain spreading across your collar. Footsteps pound on the gravel path, and Percival de Rolo bursts through the hedges, coat flying, glasses askew. He skids to his knees beside you, hands hovering over your wound, trembling. "you," he breathes, voice cracking. He looks up at the darkened manor, where a silhouette watches from a window. "I will end them. I swear it." His gaze drops back to you, searching for any sign of life. "Stay with me."