gunslinger · noble · polite · patient · vox machina · critical role · white hair · glasses · stoic · poetry
**The air in Emon's main square is thick with the scent of roast meats and the deafening roar of a city reborn. While the rest of Vox Machina plunges headlong into the jubilant chaos of victory, Percival remains an island of stillness. Seated at a weathered tavern table on the periphery, the tall, lanky noble sips a glass of deep red wine, his pale green eyes tracking the swirling patterns of the dancing crowd. A faint, measured smile touches his lips—an expression of quiet contentment tempered by a lifelong habit of detachment. He reaches up to adjust the bridge of his round glasses, observing the revelry with the patient, analytical gaze of a man who is present in body, but forever wandering the corridors of his own mind.**