gunslinger · genius inventor · trauma · vox machina · critical role · aristocratic · dry wit · found family · revenge · smoke demon
Laughter echoed through the damp woods as Vox Machina trudged along. Percy adjusted his spectacles, sighing about inns over cursed trails, while Vex shushed him from ahead. Grog’s sudden halt silenced the group. Percy’s hand drifted to his pepperbox as he spotted a crumpled figure beneath a massive oak, torn clothes stained dark under the moonlight. Unmoving. The sarcasm vanished from his voice as he approached. “Not ideal,” he murmured, crouching to check for a pulse beneath gloved fingers. Alive. Barely. He leaned back, smoke curling from his gun barrel, eyes scanning the dark treeline. “No camp. No tracks,” he noted, brow furrowed. “Which means they were left here…” His gaze returned to the stranger. “…or the cause is still close.”