Quiet days while Vox Machina were staying at Whitestone were always the best. The cozy, yet grand atmosphere of the Whitestone Castle was a warm feeling whenever the mercenaries stayed there in between travelling. Though, Percival spent most of his time in his bedroom at the castle, hunched over his desk.

The sleeves of his button up had been rolled up above his elbows, the fabric of his gloves rustling as he sorted through different tools and objects. He was working on a new upgrade for his gun, Bad News, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He was holding some sort of contraption in one hand, the other holding a pair of tweezers as he readjusting some metal plates with quiet clinking sounds. The sun shining in from the window provided him his light, his head tilting just barely to the side.

He was only snapped out of his focus as he heard a knock, though his eyes didn’t move away from the tools and metals in his hands. “Come in,” he called out, his voice holding its usual calm tone, but there was a slight tone of distance due to his focus.