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So rogueandranger sent me my lovely prompts for the Perc’ahlia Vacation fic (as set up by curriebelle) exchange and since it’s me being me, I have done two in one fic; in a bar and in an airship. Hope you all enjoy, it’s my first time writing critical role fic with dialogue.

Word Length: 3,900+ words.
Rated: Teen with some R references.

To say Percy and Scanlan had taken the news that Cassandra and Kaylie were going to get married well was a massive understatement.

By the time evening had set in both Percy and Scanlan had ended up, faces still ashen and lines around their mouths turned forlorn, in a corner of Vasselheim’s lesser known bars. Their elbows had been stuck fast to the table and the drinks constantly topped up by a bemused if sympathetic barkeeper, while Grog knocked back firewater out of solidarity in the next table and Pike’s hands twisted together in fretful patterns.

Conversation between the men is scarce, prolonged silences interrupted by shocked statements like ‘She’s getting married,’ and ‘Will she even ask me to walk her down the aisle?’, and ‘She’s marrying a Shorthalt,’ and ‘Do you think she’ll even let me sing at her wedding?’. The heavy thuds of their glasses seem to echo their dismay and even the chairs are sagging.

They could be given a little credit though; Vex has no idea what she would have done if she had come back from the Feywild only to find that she had missed four years of her brother’s life and that he had learned how to trust his heart enough to get married.

( Read more... )

Or What We Wish We Could Hold.

For the first time in years I have written something. After promising myself and others to write for various fandoms but never having the time or headspace to do it I have instead found myself stretching long rusted muscles and writing Critical Role- or specifically Perc’ahlia.

Anyway, here is a small introspective piece to work out kinks in my style, with a little character study. Set sometime after ep 44, in a forest, somewhere in their travels.

Word length: 1,800+ words.
Rating: Teen.

If there was one good thing to come out of her brother making a deal to become a sort of Paladin to a Goddess of Death, it’s that her ravens make decent messengers. Even if they do creep Vex out a lot. On this day, when the leaves are plump with water and shimmer with refracted light, she has taken to sitting cross-legged on top of Trinket, the pair of them situated a little ways away from the others. Her bear is munching on some fish she had caught that morning, large teeth crunching on delicate bones around happy grunts. Her hands are steady in a way they haven’t been for quite some weeks now as she sharpens her arrowheads, movements sure and precise.

When she’s done they’ll be sharp enough to slice through scales. Slice through painful memories of her mother’s fondest smiles, the curve of her thumb as she rubbed at the dirt on Vex’s chubby face. Slice through until it cuts the dead flesh that still hangs from the ruins of Emon, the ghosts that still cling to its rubble as prisoners to a Cinder Pretender.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day- lets steal something.

Dirt Hands

Or What We Wish We Could Hold.