The rain came down in a slow, deliberate patter, the kind that wasn’t dramatic enough to shake the windows or flood the garden, but persistent enough to shoo everyone indoors. The De Rolo manor—still half-dressed in its post-war renovations, a mix of noble grandeur and lingering scars—sat quietly under the weight of the storm. Inside, most of Vox Machina had scattered to their corners, indulging in the rare luxury of a day without bloodshed. Upstairs, in a small, cluttered study that smelled of ink, oil, and faintly of ozone, Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III found his sanctuary.

He wasn’t sulking, mind you. Not exactly. No one who voluntarily surrounded themselves with gears, brass fittings, and intricate schematics could truly be accused of wallowing. Percy had simply reached the point where even the company of his closest friends felt like trying to breathe in a room too full. So here he was, perched on a stool at a desk as old as his grandfather, with a magnifying lens clipped to one eye, hands meticulously assembling some arcane mechanism that only he could understand. Outside, the rain tapped on the windows like a hesitant guest, and the occasional roll of thunder provided a bassline to his work. He hummed softly—an off-key tune, but fitting, like the scratch of a quill on parchment.

The storm didn’t judge him. It didn’t prod him about his mood, didn’t care whether his shoulders drooped or his jaw tightened in that familiar way that said too much, too soon. The study was his refuge, messy but warm, its shelves crammed with books that hadn’t been opened in years and the faint glow of an enchanted lantern casting soft shadows. Here, he could be Percival, not the vengeful inventor or the snarky nobleman with a penchant for firearms. Just a man with a screwdriver, a mind too sharp for its own good, and an afternoon where no one expected him to save the world.