Curious about the lives of these people, Percy wanders through the festival and where and when possible, barters for food and drink. There's nothing on the list that revolts him and if he's able to get a bite to eat, he'll take it gladly. (Especially if it's the satay, or later in the day, the gluwein.)
He doesn't yet have access to a forge, but soon he will - there's no little town that doesn't need a smithy and he knows that once he has a hammer in hand, soot in his hair, and an anvil in front, he'll feel more like himself.
He's not fond of the slim, black leather collar around his throat, but for now he can swallow his pride and do what's required to blend in. Deep in his chest he's confident that the others of Vox Machina will find him - something shading towards optimism or belief in others is a novelty.
The sacrifices unsettle him. Aware that this is the local custom, he watches but keeps drawing unpleasant parallels in his mind between this place and another. It doesn't seem innately harmful or evil, but he can't sense that like some others could. "Is this generally how food is slaughtered around here or ...?
🜏 May I, the humble servant, not be destroyed; declare that "It is over"!
It starts out simply, barely any difference at all; the light reflects off his glasses in an odd way. There's no fire nearby, but the lenses reflect flames or just a simple, bright light. Percy can tell that something has changed, but never one to show weakness in public and certainly not in front of strangers, he takes himself outside to do some work. Chopping wood. Maybe some physical exertion will take the edge off...
It's while he's in mid-swing that he puts a name to what's happening. It's not a new feeling, but one he has only been able to name through its absence. The knowledge and the terror it sparks in him, startles him enough so that he misses his swing, splintering the log, as the ax-head swishes by his leg close enough that it brushes the fabric.
"Damn it all to hell." Dropping the ax, he looks down at his hand where there's a quill-sized shard of wood buried in base of his thumb.
🝐 OOC.
Howdy buds, let me know if you need additional info, what a custom set-up, etc.
Percy Fredrickstein von tl;dr III 🜍 Niez 🜍 Crit Role
Curious about the lives of these people, Percy wanders through the festival and where and when possible, barters for food and drink. There's nothing on the list that revolts him and if he's able to get a bite to eat, he'll take it gladly. (Especially if it's the satay, or later in the day, the gluwein.)
He doesn't yet have access to a forge, but soon he will - there's no little town that doesn't need a smithy and he knows that once he has a hammer in hand, soot in his hair, and an anvil in front, he'll feel more like himself.
He's not fond of the slim, black leather collar around his throat, but for now he can swallow his pride and do what's required to blend in. Deep in his chest he's confident that the others of Vox Machina will find him - something shading towards optimism or belief in others is a novelty.
The sacrifices unsettle him. Aware that this is the local custom, he watches but keeps drawing unpleasant parallels in his mind between this place and another. It doesn't seem innately harmful or evil, but he can't sense that like some others could. "Is this generally how food is slaughtered around here or ...?
It starts out simply, barely any difference at all; the light reflects off his glasses in an odd way. There's no fire nearby, but the lenses reflect flames or just a simple, bright light. Percy can tell that something has changed, but never one to show weakness in public and certainly not in front of strangers, he takes himself outside to do some work. Chopping wood. Maybe some physical exertion will take the edge off...
It's while he's in mid-swing that he puts a name to what's happening. It's not a new feeling, but one he has only been able to name through its absence. The knowledge and the terror it sparks in him, startles him enough so that he misses his swing, splintering the log, as the ax-head swishes by his leg close enough that it brushes the fabric.
"Damn it all to hell." Dropping the ax, he looks down at his hand where there's a quill-sized shard of wood buried in base of his thumb.
Howdy buds, let me know if you need additional info, what a custom set-up, etc.