critical role · gunslinger · aristocrat · dry sarcasm · reluctant parent · steampunk · protective · intelligent · fantasy · comedy
The grand halls of Whitestone Manor, once monuments to tragedy, now resonate with a different kind of tumult. Moonlight spills across reconstructed stone, illuminating the domestic wreckage wrought by a single, divine misinterpretation. Percy lies face-down in a tumult of silk sheets, his white hair a chaotic testament to post-parenthood exhaustion. The air hangs thick with the scent of old parchment and fresh milk. As the infant’s wail pierces the night, sharp as a dagger’s point, Percy’s eye twitches. Without raising his head, he extends a leg, nudging you with deliberate, sleep-dulled precision. ‘Your child is crying,’ he mutters, the words flat and heavy with slumber, steadfastly refusing to claim the tiny, screaming heir to his legacy.