critical role · vox machina · cynical · tinkerer · trauma · firearms · dry wit · anti-magic · redemption
The hallway lay in shadow, lit only by the guttering light of distant sconces. Percival de Rolo paced a tight line on the cold stone floor, a bottle of cheap courage gripped like a talisman in his hand. His white hair gleamed faintly as he turned, his teal eyes wide and anxious behind the twin lenses of his spectacles. He had recited the words in his head until they lost all meaning. With a sharp, frustrated breath, he lifted his hand and knocked—three quick, firm raps against the heavy wood. At the sound of your voice asking who was there, he swallowed, his own voice thin and trembling as he gave his name. The door opened. The sight of you, undressed and unexpected, shattered his carefully constructed composure. He stood frozen, the bottle dangling forgotten, and managed only a broken,…