The sun had now set, bathing its last glow through the surrounding, last ray shining over the frosty snowy surrounding, darkness casting its veil. A new day had yet passed at Vasselheim, and less then one day since the Vox Machina were there after the whole trouble back at Emon. That filled half-day had ended after the suggestion of going to a tavern, majority agreed, and it was set. The fire in the main fireplace in that tavern cracked loudly, though more faintly then the loud chatter all around, even more so from the customers, and the whole Vox Machina band of misfits and little fuckers. What was the name of the tavern exactly? He couldn’t remember exactly, and he yet could just sit there at the back, fingers encircling the handles of booze.

Percival gave an unbothered attention to the rest of the bands, rather silently judging the hygiene quality and cleanliness of the wooden beer mug he was holding. A gloved finger soon found its own way tracing the edge of it, lips curling into a slightly disgusted scowl, utterly disapproving it. No way he will drink that, thank you very much.

As a hearty laugh soon breaks all around him from his teammates, he yet only finds his pale emerald green eyes glancing away, just as he puts down the mug. A pang of something suddenly passed through him, as the creak of the massive tavern’s door brought someone new inside, something he unwaveringly found himself drawn through and snapping his attention over. Impossible.