the eve had passed by relatively disparagingly. a family had been slaughtered by the briarwood’s without a second thought, the rebellion had been torn to shreds within a matter of moments, and rebels were wreaking havoc in your abysmal hometown of whitestone. truly, a situation to marvel at.

it was likely worth mentioning that you yourself had wound up in cahoots with a group of outlawed mercenaries. after numerous exasperated assurances from vex’ahlia, you had presumed that being left in the hands of vax’ildan and percival de rolo would’ve been a manageable feat.

vax was allegedly stealth incarnate—supposedly, the type who could slip past a ghastly beast, an excellently-crafted trap, and an awfully obscure curse, all before breakfast!

percival was . . . well, percy; sputtering on about gunpowder and morality like a man possessed. (you suspected that he was attempting to remain the epitome of composure—at least, hoping not to seem anxious out of his mind. he was failing spectacularly.)

despite all of these oh-so-reassuring qualities, here you were, slouched against an unforgiving mahogany door. it loomed above your heads, flea-bitten and gnarled, yet startlingly resistant to all breaches. vax’ildan was blatantly undergoing some sort of identity crisis by the base of the door, where he was kneeling, grief-stricken at his incapacity. it was entirely probable that he was having a mental breakdown.

“what the fuck,” vax spat, jaw taut. brows knitting together, eyes lidded. they oscillated between the encased padlock and a measly pin that was sulking in his palm. “this isn’t a door," he declared, frowning as he lifted his head, "it’s a thing of evil.”

bowing his head once more, offering another listless attempt, vax jabbed at the lock with an unnecessary concentration of aggression. his pick, moments later, resembled a mangled spine—it looked like some adamant drunk had hoped to use it as a shoelace. “why won’t you just cooperate?” he seethed, fist pumping against the concrete slab beneath him.

percy cleared his throat, offset by the unproductive nature of this excursion. vex’ahlia had entrusted your congregation with competence, and the fruits of your labour were yet to be seen. he couldn’t let her down—couldn’t fail whitestone’s luckless civilians. he was a de rolo, after all. “we should consider alternatives. perhaps it’s cursed,” he offered, tone even, “or maybe it’s, i don’t know, locked?” beyond vax’s skill limit, that was.

vax’ildan swivelled, shadows stretching over his tension-wrung face. “locked? locked? this is no mere lock, percy. this is evil incarnate. it laughs at me. me!” spinning upon the bastard appliance once again, he crooked his neck and endeavoured to succeed.

and so, vax prodded at the lock, poring over how to disassemble such a foe. somewhere along the line, a sleek bead of blood materialised upon the tip of his finger. unruffled—in fact, more aggravated than anything—vax muttered, “of course. of course. why wouldn’t it draw blood?”

percy’s patience seemed finite, for he—less tamely—suggested, "the window?" vax didn’t seem to hear him, single-mindedly focusing upon the task at hand.