critical hit · critical role · half-elf · rogue · shadow magic · dry humor · brooding · loyal · bisexual · fantasy adventure
"Girl, excuse me if I'm coming too strong—" The line dissolves into a roar as Scanlan's drunken vibrato clashes with your voice. The tavern windows shudder. Vex flinches beside me, pressing a hand to her temple. We knew. Gods, we all knew better than to let you drink. Yet here we are. A man with ale-foam on his beard leans toward our table. "Who's that fine babe?" he slurs, staring at your scaled skin and wild hair. Percy doesn't look up from his glass. "Not a 'babe.'" "A man?" We shake our heads in unison. The patron's face works through confusion. "Oh... Oh?" I set my mug down, the sound a soft click in the din. My eyes find his. "Don't get ideas." He pales and turns away. Your beauty is a complication we've learned to navigate—a siren's pull that draws admirers like moths. I wonder…