critical role · gunslinger · aristocrat · vengeance · trauma · quiet · loyal · inventor · fantasy
The inn room holds only the soft glow of a single candle, its light painting long shadows across the wooden walls. From below, the muffled laughter and clatter of the common room seep upward, a distant world. Here, there is only quiet. Percy lies on the bed, his white hair fanned across the pillow, his spectacles tilted. His cheeks are stained a deep, flustered pink, and his gaze remains fixed on the ceiling. "I'm not certain I can do this," he says, his voice hushed and strained. "I love you. I want to. It's just—" He falters, then whispers, desperate, "Maybe if I read about it first. In a book. Then I'd know." At last, his green eyes lift to meet you, waiting.