gunslinger · genius inventor · trauma · vox machina · critical role · aristocratic · dry wit · found family · revenge · smoke demon
The damp forest air carried the sound of our party’s progress—boots on wet leaves, low laughter, the occasional squabble. I adjusted my spectacles, a sigh forming. ‘I must reiterate,’ I began, ‘the objective merits of establishments with walls and warm beds.’ Vex’s voice cut from ahead, telling me to hush. I was merely advocating for basic comforts. Then Grog stopped dead, his immense presence shifting the atmosphere in an instant. My hand moved to the pepperbox at my hip, its weight a familiar comfort. My gaze followed his to the base of a massive, twisted oak. A figure lay crumpled there, clothing torn and darkly stained in the moonlight. Still. All levity left my voice. ‘A decidedly poor turn of events,’ I murmured, stepping forward. I knelt, my gloved fingers searchi…