𝐙𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐩𝐡𝐮𝐬 (spoilers for Critical Role through episode 69)
[Percy has, on occasion, idly pondered his life past a point as a dying dream of a lonely, broken boy in a prison cell- it's morbid, but when you've led a life like his, sometimes you have to poke and prod at a perceived reality just to make sure it holds up.
Professor Anders taught him that.
And, quite frankly, Anna Ripley has taught him a few things about death, considering how much about the subject she learned from him. If he died in that prison, it would be a poor death, but it would be Ripley's hand that dealt it. A death facing her head-on in the heat of a battle- gods, he couldn't have written a more perfect ending to his life.
But it wasn't a fantasy and he wasn't dead or at least he wasn't anymore... Or so he thought. The reason the prison in Stilben (and his death on Glintshore) even comes to mind at all is the fact that all of a sudden what he thought he understood about his present circumstances has been turned on its head, so why not assume everything's gone to shit in all the worst ways.
But Stilben wouldn't be shaking nearly this much, and he has quite a vivid understanding of the horrific nature of a true death. Dragon's lairs, on the other hand- those have a tendency to have very erratic behaviors, and whatever idle, morbid thoughts entered his head as he avoided consciousness to keep some illusion of precisely how fucked reality is have faded as he sits bolt upright.
He is not in a prison. He is not on a battlefield. He is not in a dragon's lair. He is also not in his bed in Whitestone which is really where he damn well should be, but he already knew that wasn't the case. He doesn't have enough time to linger on the revelation before the ground begins to open up and attempts to swallow him hole. Dexterity is on his side as he rolls out of the way and something catches his eye- a knapsack. Even in the presence of danger, loot is loot and he snatches the bag before it falls into the yawning chasm.
The shaking subsides for a moment, Percy panting and staring ahead, eyes scanning for any side of the rest of Vox Machina. When the panic rises like bile in his throat as he sees no sign of them, he turns his attention to productive matters, checking his equipment, making sure his guns are all there (even Ripley's- the one he hasn't attuned to yet), and once that matter is settled, he looks at the knapsack.
And in the middle of danger, confused and wary and pissed off, Percy's mouth forms into a perfect straight line as he turns the bag around to see his entire name along thr full circumference and then looping back around in fancy embroidery.]
Someone has a terrible sense of humor.
[And then he barks a sharp, anxious laugh. What else can he do? He's kind of well and truly fucked right now.]
𝐄𝐧𝐬ō (non-spoilery prompt)
[You know those days where you're like "this might as well happen?"
Percival de Rolo is having one of those days. He has no idea what's going on and most of what he has done for the past day has been driven by pure adrenaline and a need to keep moving to avoid the inevitable crash.
But eventually he has to stop and when he does stop, it's on the beach, observing the bioluminescent creatures as they swim along in the water. They look like something out of the Feywild, which makes him inclined to distrust, but he isn't going to bother them.
And when one dares to begin digging out a nest mere feet from him, he even goes as far as to be polite, because if they are anything like the denizens of the Feywild, politeness matters.]
Good evening. Lovely weather here, isn't it. It's much nicer on this island than it is the other one. [He sighs and adjusts his glasses.] I'm trying to make smalltalk with a turtle. I have truly gone mad.
percival de rolo | ota
[Percy has, on occasion, idly pondered his life past a point as a dying dream of a lonely, broken boy in a prison cell- it's morbid, but when you've led a life like his, sometimes you have to poke and prod at a perceived reality just to make sure it holds up.
Professor Anders taught him that.
And, quite frankly, Anna Ripley has taught him a few things about death, considering how much about the subject she learned from him. If he died in that prison, it would be a poor death, but it would be Ripley's hand that dealt it. A death facing her head-on in the heat of a battle- gods, he couldn't have written a more perfect ending to his life.
But it wasn't a fantasy and he wasn't dead or at least he wasn't anymore... Or so he thought. The reason the prison in Stilben (and his death on Glintshore) even comes to mind at all is the fact that all of a sudden what he thought he understood about his present circumstances has been turned on its head, so why not assume everything's gone to shit in all the worst ways.
But Stilben wouldn't be shaking nearly this much, and he has quite a vivid understanding of the horrific nature of a true death. Dragon's lairs, on the other hand- those have a tendency to have very erratic behaviors, and whatever idle, morbid thoughts entered his head as he avoided consciousness to keep some illusion of precisely how fucked reality is have faded as he sits bolt upright.
He is not in a prison. He is not on a battlefield. He is not in a dragon's lair. He is also not in his bed in Whitestone which is really where he damn well should be, but he already knew that wasn't the case. He doesn't have enough time to linger on the revelation before the ground begins to open up and attempts to swallow him hole. Dexterity is on his side as he rolls out of the way and something catches his eye- a knapsack. Even in the presence of danger, loot is loot and he snatches the bag before it falls into the yawning chasm.
The shaking subsides for a moment, Percy panting and staring ahead, eyes scanning for any side of the rest of Vox Machina. When the panic rises like bile in his throat as he sees no sign of them, he turns his attention to productive matters, checking his equipment, making sure his guns are all there (even Ripley's- the one he hasn't attuned to yet), and once that matter is settled, he looks at the knapsack.
And in the middle of danger, confused and wary and pissed off, Percy's mouth forms into a perfect straight line as he turns the bag around to see his entire name along thr full circumference and then looping back around in fancy embroidery.]
Someone has a terrible sense of humor.
[And then he barks a sharp, anxious laugh. What else can he do? He's kind of well and truly fucked right now.]
𝐄𝐧𝐬ō (non-spoilery prompt)
[You know those days where you're like "this might as well happen?"
Percival de Rolo is having one of those days. He has no idea what's going on and most of what he has done for the past day has been driven by pure adrenaline and a need to keep moving to avoid the inevitable crash.
But eventually he has to stop and when he does stop, it's on the beach, observing the bioluminescent creatures as they swim along in the water. They look like something out of the Feywild, which makes him inclined to distrust, but he isn't going to bother them.
And when one dares to begin digging out a nest mere feet from him, he even goes as far as to be polite, because if they are anything like the denizens of the Feywild, politeness matters.]
Good evening. Lovely weather here, isn't it. It's much nicer on this island than it is the other one. [He sighs and adjusts his glasses.] I'm trying to make smalltalk with a turtle. I have truly gone mad.