Work Text:
“Your concerns are genuinely appreciated, truly,” Percival said, his voice laced with a mixture of frustration and resignation. He turned his head slightly to the side, muttering to himself under his breath, a habit he had developed when he felt overwhelmed by the weight of his own thoughts. “As soon as this madness is over, I promise I will sort it all out.” The words emerged through gritted teeth, each syllable a reflection of the strain he was under, especially as the concerned gazes of his friends remained fixed on his face. It was abundantly clear to him that they were not keen on letting this conversation drop, but his expression spoke volumes, communicating his reluctance to delve into the depths of his mental health.
He could not see the disbelief etched on their faces, but he could hear the soft, disappointed sighs they exchanged, a sound that only heightened his irritation.
“Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III, you are going to therapy!” one voice stated emphatically. The tone was unmistakably that of Vex’ahlia, a woman whose resolve was as fierce as her archery skills. The use of his full name made him freeze momentarily; it was a name they rarely used, preferring the more casual ‘Percy’ unless they were either scared, irritated, or genuinely concerned for him.
Lifting his gaze, he caught a glimpse of his friends nodding at one another, the unspoken agreement between them evident. It was clear they had conspired about this without him, a realization that sent a wave of frustration coursing through him. He muttered a curse under his breath, the words barely audible yet heavy with the weight of his concern. The gravity of their synchronized movements hit him like a jolt; they were gearing up to close in, and the instinct for survival surged within him. In a split second, his hand instinctively tensed, reaching for the holster snugly strapped to his hip. With resolute determination, he drew his gun in one fluid motion, the metal cool against his palm as he cocked it and aimed it squarely at his friends. The sight of his weapon caught their attention, effectively freezing them in their tracks and halting their advance. He was well aware of the reasons he had earned the moniker of the Gunslinger among their tight-knit group. His marksmanship was second to none, unmatched except perhaps by the legendary precision of the Half-Elf twins—Vex’ahlia, with her graceful archery skills, and Vax’ildan, who wielded his daggers with an artistry that left spectators in awe.
Seizing the moment, adrenaline coursed through his veins like wildfire, heightening his senses and sharpening his focus. “You’ll have to catch me first!” he shouted defiantly, his voice echoing through the corridor as he pivoted sharply on his heel and sprinted away. He narrowly dodged Grog’s massive hands, which reached out in a desperate attempt to snag him, while Vax’ildan, ever the agile rogue, positioned himself deftly behind him, ready to spring into action.
As he sprinted down the hall, the frustrated growl of Trinket, Vex’ahlia’s loyal bear companion, reverberated in the air behind him—a sound that invigorated him, spurring him to push himself even harder. He cursed again under his breath as he felt the ground shift beneath his feet, an unmistakable signal that the chase was in full swing. The pounding of footsteps echoed in his ears, accompanied by the cacophony of voices—Pike and Scanlan, the gnome clerics, were also hot on his trail, their determination palpable as they joined Grog and Vax’ildan in their pursuit. With each passing moment, he could feel the pressure mounting, the weight of their friendship propelling them forward.
In a fleeting moment of clarity, a thought struck him—where were Vex and Keyleth? He stole a glance ahead at the open door, the warm glow of light spilling out from the upper floors enticing him. It illuminated a potential path for escape, yet before he could fully grasp the opportunity, he instinctively dove into a secret passageway to his left. This choice was born of instinct, desperation, and the nagging feeling that his two missing companions were likely lying in wait upstairs, ready to intercept him. Knowing Vex as he did, he imagined her anticipating his refusal to be caught and lying in wait to block his exit. Keyleth, on the other hand, was an unpredictable variable; her movements were erratic and spontaneous, adding an element of danger to the chase that made him hesitate as he navigated the damp, earthy walls of the hidden passage.
What gave him a sliver of confidence in this precarious situation was his intimate knowledge of the castle—his ancestral home, a labyrinth filled with secret passages and hidden routes. This was terrain that his friends were unfamiliar with, and the only ones who might have a chance of matching his knowledge were Vax’ildan, the stealthy rogue who had likely spent countless hours scouting potential escape routes, and his younger sister, Lady Cassandra De Rolo, who had grown up exploring these very tunnels alongside him. As he slipped deeper into the shadows, Percival felt a mix of pride and anxiety swell within him. He was a slippery motherfucker, a title he wore with a sense of unashamed pride. However, he also understood that the lengths his friends would go to for his safety were more than just part of a game; they were a testament to their unwavering concern for his well-being.
Panting heavily, he stumbled out of the narrow passageway, his heart racing and adrenaline pumping through his veins. As he blinked against the dim light, he found himself standing in a long hallway that led directly to the throne room, just a short distance away. The sounds of confusion and frantic whispers echoed behind him, signaling that his friends had finally ascended from the lower levels of the castle in search of him. An involuntary smile crept onto his face at the thought of their concern, a reminder of the bonds they shared despite the chaos that had unfolded.
When his gaze fell upon one of the guards, who was eyeing him with a perplexed expression, he quickly raised a finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. “You never saw me,” he whispered, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial. The guard’s bewildered stare made his heart race with mischief, and with a quick glance over his shoulder, he ducked into yet another secret passageway. He paused momentarily, just long enough to catch a snippet of Pike’s voice as she began questioning the guard. Her tone was urgent and commanding, and though the guard seemed utterly bewildered and offered no answers, Percival couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction at the thought of their concern for him.
Scurrying down the passageway, he emerged once more, this time into another hallway located on the third level of the stone castle, just a few strides from his bedroom door. The exhilarating thrill of the chase still hung palpably in the air, intoxicating him with a sense of adventure and adrenaline. Yet, woven in with this exhilaration was the comforting warmth of camaraderie, the unbreakable bond he shared with his friends, which anchored him amidst the chaos. As he paused to catch his breath, however, an unwelcome wave of guilt washed over him, pulling his features into a deep frown. For all the excitement that had surged through him during the chase, it was tainted by an underlying fear—an all-consuming fear that gnawed at the very edges of his consciousness, relentless and unyielding.
He was terrified, not only of the daunting challenges that lay before him but more so of confronting the weaknesses that festered within. The shadows of his past loomed large, haunting him, lying just beneath the surface of his carefully constructed bravado. With a heavy sigh that seemed to echo his internal struggle, he trudged toward his room, the familiar surroundings offering little solace. He opened the door with a soft creak, allowing it to swing shut behind him with a gentle thud that felt final. There was no time to appreciate the once-comforting trappings of his sanctuary; instead, he made a beeline for the barred-off balcony door, peering out at the world beyond with a sense of longing.
Though he understood that the bars on the windows were intended for his safety, they instead felt like a stark reminder of his vulnerabilities and fears. It was Vax who had found him on that fateful night, clinging desperately to the edge of the balcony, staring down into the dark abyss of rocky cliffs that seemed to promise both freedom and despair. Cassandra, in her fierce protectiveness, had ordered the castle staff to hastily board up the doors leading outside, convinced he was attempting to abandon them all. In truth, that sentiment struck a chord within him, a fact he wasn’t ready to confront, even within the privacy of his own mind.
Letting out another heavy sigh, he cast a glance back into his room. His eyes fell upon the faint imprints left on the wall where a display of weapons had once hung—another precautionary measure implemented, this time by Vex’ahlia. The memories of that time weighed heavily on him, emotions pressing down like a physical burden. Turning back to the window, he drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cold, unforgiving glass, seeking solace in the stillness.
Just then, the warmth of a hand on his waist jolted him from his introspection. He spun around to find Vax standing just a few steps behind him, a teasing smile dancing on his lips, which were always so quick to lighten the mood. “Hey, Freddy… can we count this as having caught you?” Vax’s playful tone cut through the tension, but Percy could feel the weight of the moment pressing against him.
Frozen in place, Percy’s gaze darted around the room, taking stock of his surroundings. Keyleth stood a few paces behind Vax, her expression a blend of concern and determination, ready to spring into action if needed. Vex’ahlia was positioned to Vax’s left, her grip on her weapon tight, unwavering, and prepared for anything. The sight of Vex, with an arrow nocked and aimed directly at him, sent a rush of adrenaline through his veins, heightening the air of tension that had suddenly enveloped the room.
Gritting his teeth, he felt the atmosphere thicken, heavy with unspoken words and hidden uncertainties. His gaze landed on a candle fixture affixed to the wall a short distance to his right. At first glance, it appeared to be an ordinary addition to the décor, but he knew better than to be deceived. Unlike the others in the room, this candle was no mere decorative piece; it was a decoy—an elaborate ruse designed to ensnare the unsuspecting. In truth, it functioned as a lever that, when pulled at a specific angle, would reveal a hidden tunnel leading directly to the kitchens.
Suppressing the urge to smirk at the cleverness of his own design, he instead let out a heavy sigh, feigning resignation as he began to pace toward the wall. He could feel the trio’s eyes on him, scrutinizing his every move, their curiosity palpable. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he forced himself to remain relaxed and compliant, biding his time until he was close enough to make his move. Just as he reached the lever, he seized it with determination, yanking it down as the false wall swung open, allowing him to slip through the hidden passage. He slammed the door shut behind him with a sense of urgency, the echoes of his hurried actions fading away.
He knew they would be quick to follow, so he pressed himself against the brick wall that concealed a small alcove, perfect for hiding. His heart raced in his chest, the thrill of the chase surging through his veins once more, flushing him of any lingering guilt and sorrow, masking the shadows of his fears. The sound of three sets of footsteps grew louder as they rushed down the stairs, culminating in a loud thud when they burst into the kitchens, their voices carrying in the air.
He knew he didn’t have long before they figured out his deception. With a sense of urgency propelling him forward, he retraced his steps, rushing back into his bedroom and locating the other secret passageway hidden behind a grand tapestry that depicted the de Rolo family tree. He dove into the passage, feeling the cool air envelop him as he emerged in what he recognized as the Heir's room. This space had once belonged to Julius, Perceval’s older brother, before his tragic and untimely demise.
Now, the room belonged to Cassandra, who, by the legal line of succession, was the heir to Whitestone. Percy, on the other hand, was the true Lord of Whitestone, though Cassandra had taken the reins of governance, leaving Percy to serve as a mere face for the public. Taking strides across the room, he opened yet another secret passageway, this one triggered by a false candelabra that mirrored the mechanism in his own chamber.
He hoped that by the time he emerged from this tunnel and into the bustling kitchens, the trio he had just eluded would be gone, allowing him to make his escape into the woods beyond.
As Percy reached the bottom of the secret passageway stairs, he paused, taking a moment to survey the bustling room before him. Cooks and staff moved about in a flurry of activity, their voices a blend of chatter and clattering pots. He felt a wave of relief wash over him when he noticed that none of his friends were in sight. The absence of their familiar faces allowed him a brief moment of respite, yet he remained acutely aware of the potential for Vax or Vex to be lurking nearby, their skills in stealth making them adept at evading detection.
With a cautious demeanor, he began to creep along the perimeter of the room, his senses heightened as he navigated the space. Each step was deliberate, as he made his way to the secret door that would grant him exit. Just as he slipped through the doorway, he heard a cacophony of exclamations from the staff, their curses punctuating the air. A grin spread across his face; he had assumed that at some point, his friends had alerted the staff to keep an eye out for him. However, many of the workers were new, and others were still adjusting to the return of the De Rolo family following the defeat of the Briarwoods.
Unable to contain himself, Percy let out a whoop of glee, momentarily forgetting his noble demeanor. The sight of the exit coming into view filled him with exhilaration. With a wild grin, he pushed himself forward, spurred on by the sounds of pursuit behind him. He suspected it was his friends chasing after him, likely alerted by the staff’s shouts.
Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he caught sight of Vax, who wore a smirk that suggested both amusement and admiration for Percy’s antics. In a moment of playful defiance, he stuck his tongue out at his friend. However, in his moment of distraction, he failed to notice a figure stepping into his path until it was too late. The collision was sudden and unexpected; he crashed into them face-first, the impact jarring him backward onto the floor.
Rubbing his temple, Percy looked up to see Cassandra towering over him, her expression one of unimpressed disapproval. He couldn't quite fathom how she had managed to remain upright during their collision, but he felt a rush of embarrassment as he cowered slightly under her stern gaze.
“Really, Percy? Didn’t we already have this conversation recently?” she chastised, her tone leaving little room for argument.
“Uh…” he stammered, his cheeks flushing as he searched for an appropriate response.
“And now I hear you’re running around the castle trying to evade Vox Machina?” she continued, her arms crossed in exasperation.
Just then, Vax and Vex arrived, panting heavily, with Keyleth trailing closely behind, her breaths coming in quick gasps.
“Finally! You’re a slippery mother—” Vax started, but his comment was abruptly cut off by Cassandra’s arched brow, which seemed to communicate a warning.
“And you! I told you confronting him in the way you did wouldn’t work! And yet you decided to still do it!” Cassandra’s voice rose slightly, catching the attention of everyone present.
“Well—” Vax attempted to defend himself, but Cassandra was far from finished.
“Pike said—” Vex chimed in, only to be interrupted by Cassandra’s sharp stare.
“We didn’t—” all three half-elves stumbled over their words, each trying to find a way to justify their actions.
“I even showed you where most of the passageways were! Did none of you retain anything?” Cassandra continued, her frustration palpable. Percy watched with a mix of amusement and sympathy as a flush crept over the faces of his friends, an expression of sheepishness that was both familiar and endearing.
“And back to YOU!” Cassandra’s tone shifted again, startling Percy as he realized she was now focused entirely on him. Her intimidating presence was reminiscent of their older sister, Vesper, who had inherited similar qualities from their formidable mother, Johanna. Both women possessed an uncanny ability to admonish him effectively, a skill that had kept Percy in line throughout his childhood.
“You!” Cassandra exclaimed, grabbing his arm with a grip that felt unyielding. Despite his height, she hoisted him up to a standing position with surprising ease, jabbing a gloved finger into his chest, delivering her message with fierce intensity. “You are going to therapy—no ifs, ands, or buts about it!”
Percy opened his mouth to protest, but his words were swallowed by the sheer force of her irate expression. As she looked past him and nodded, he felt her other hand grab his other arm, holding them firmly to his sides, a clear indication that escape was not an option.
“What th—” he started to say, but was cut off again, his protests falling on deaf ears.
A few minutes later, a man from the Cloudtop District in Emon sat nervously across from the Lord of Whitestone, his gaze flickering down to his notes as he tried to maintain his composure. The tension in the room was palpable, and he did his best to ignore the half-elf rogue leaning casually against the wall by the only window, as well as the other half-elven ranger and her bear companion sitting quietly beside the door.
However, it was nearly impossible to overlook the Lady of the castle, who sat poised and regal beside him, sipping tea with an air of calm authority. The other half-elven woman was engaged in coaxing his patient into eating something, her gentle insistence juxtaposing the serious atmosphere.
Despite the distractions, the man’s focus remained on the Lord of Whitestone, who sat bound to a chair with a combination of vines and ropes, two arrows embedded in the shoulders of his coat, pinning him firmly against the backrest. Two daggers were strategically placed, anchoring his sleeves to the arms of the chair, ensuring that any attempt to escape would be met with resistance.
“So—uh, Lord De Rolo…” the man began, his voice trembling slightly as he attempted to break the tension that enveloped the room.