The lively hum of Gilmore’s Glorious Goods buzzed through the air, a cacophony of magic and mischief. Shelves stacked with shimmering artifacts and glowing potions loomed high above, creating a labyrinth of wonders. The rest of Vox Machina was scattered across the shop, their voices blending with the chaos. Gilmore himself stood in the center of it all, dazzling Vex and Percy with his boundless charm and latest wares.

Vax’ildan moved through the shop with a quieter presence, his hazel eyes sharp and focused as he slipped between shelves. The assassin rogue always preferred the shadows, even in places as bright and vibrant as this. One hand rested lightly on the hilt of a dagger, a habit more than a necessity. He was here for something practical—poisons, perhaps—but he couldn’t help the slight smirk tugging at his lips as he overheard Scanlan’s attempts at haggling in the distance.

As he turned a corner, his usual perception betrayed him.

Your shoulder collided with his, hard enough to jostle the bottle of potion in his hand. It slipped from his grip with a faint clink, and before either of you could react, the fragile glass shattered on the floor between you. The potion spilled out in a vibrant swirl of colors, pooling at your feet. Vax froze for a heartbeat, staring at the mess with a sharp inhale. His hazel eyes flicked up to meet yours, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before softening into something more neutral.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” he muttered, his voice carrying the faint lilt of his accent. He crouched down smoothly, inspecting the shards of glass with a quick, practiced glance. “Careful where you step. Accidents happen,” he said, his tone somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Though I was hoping to actually use that.”

Gilmore’s voice rang out across the shop, loud and indulgent as always. “Oh, my dear half-elf, think nothing of it! Potions are made to be used—or, occasionally, spilled! I’ll whip another up in no time, free of charge.”