( ooc note: if you prefer prose, feel free! i always default to action brackets, but will match. )
ESCAPE FROM BULLSHIT MOUNTAIN
[ this.
now this is something percy can do.
waking up with a sharp gasp in the tent, having a strange uniform shoved into his hands and a mission between his ears, he wonders if this is what the afterlife is like: work, work, work, no different from the land of the living, really. he barely has time to breathe between all the belt buckles and cloth, the sound of explosions echoing from outside. he's in the middle of getting up to speed with a new rifle supplied to him, when an enormous roar gets him urged outside the tent, scrambling but snatching up bad news and slinging the other rifle over his shoulder (you never know when you need a back up, right?)
in the back of his mind, he's trying to scan his surroundings for anyone - anything, a half panic thinking well if i'm dead, no doubt everyone else has come to join me. a shock of keyleth's red hair, grog's unmistakable form, the silhouette of vex'ahlia sailing through the air or a shadow that looks too uncanny to be anyone but vax. a wafting of purple magic or scanlan's sharp, pitched voice. but as far as he knows, they aren't here. and there's no time as someone barks out the order: "cover them!"
bad news comes up immediately, miraculously unjammed and ready to go. he loads a shot, and he gets into a good position up against cover, seeing the frantic silhouettes of people running towards them - rabbits in a field of mud and gore, what look to be curled rows of metallic thorned vines snaking together.
percy is methodical in his shots, well-practiced, and his hits land with every high-risk roll he makes. if someone looks completely unfamiliar with a rifle, he offers to help without so much as a beat, sliding into position beside them and doing his best to teach on the fly. the only point he stops is to reach out when someone is close enough to the edge trench. if allowed, grabbing them by the forearm, easing them down. ]
Here, here we go... easy does it now...
[ the smell of gunpowder is hot in the air, bad news snaking heat from its barrel. ]
THE DESCENT
[ the snow falls and percy feels an intense jag of yearning pitch inside of him. it yawns wide and cavernous for whitestone, for his sister, for the isle of glintshore, for the overwhelming heaviness of orthax striking him down.
he's got both hands around bad news, regulation rifle strapped to his back as he walks among the stretches, eyes up at every vantage point he, as a gunman, can imagine, ready at a moment's notice to fire. he may be accompanying you as a stretcher bearer or even as a weak and tired patient on said stretcher, or he may be taking a moment's rest to count out what ammunition he has left in a pouch at his hip. regardless, he stalks, and as strangely bookish as he might look with his glasses perched on his nose and the mud in his fine, white hair under his hat, he looks as though he very much means business.
those who may be lining up to shoot at a regency solider peering up over their ledge of cover to get in an attack of opportunity, percy will aid in other ways. not with his gun, but with a hand and a soft plume of almost unsettlingly alive smoke climbing up over his collar. while the injured parade behind him, he casts hex silently on the target ahead, a soft mutter coming from him. ]
Strike now while the advantage is yours.
THE BEACH (DAVID VS. GOLIATH)
[ the black smoke flaring up from percy's coat is easy to blame on delirium. there's no time to waste as enough time has passed from the descent to the beach. a respite allows percy to cast hex on one regency soldier and fire off a shot, smash ribs with the gun stock. he's not a melee fighter, but what had the message said?
expendability?
hadn't he already caused enough trouble as it were? this would be... some sort of repentance, perhaps. it doesn't fix the self loathing, but does it provide a balm for it? maybe. he lets the stronger of their forces finish off a hexed target quickly, the black smoke fluttering from one soldier to another of percy's choosing as the spell's yet to complete and his concentration is precision focused, best that it can be. of course, all good things wear down in time, and percy - a little breathless, eyebrows screwed tightly, waves off one last withering tendril of smoke. ]
I can't -
[ as someone smashes straight into his face with an elbow, glass of his spectacles cracking and sending him down.
(how he makes it to the boats headed for the marie antoinette is anyone's guess.) ]
ANCHORS AWEIGH
[ someone come fix his fucking glasses please, he's doing his best!!!!!
aka a wildcard where percy is pretty fucking blind rip. ]
percival fredrickstein von musel klossowski de rolo iii / critical role / new recruit
ESCAPE FROM BULLSHIT MOUNTAIN
[ this.
now this is something percy can do.
waking up with a sharp gasp in the tent, having a strange uniform shoved into his hands and a mission between his ears, he wonders if this is what the afterlife is like: work, work, work, no different from the land of the living, really. he barely has time to breathe between all the belt buckles and cloth, the sound of explosions echoing from outside. he's in the middle of getting up to speed with a new rifle supplied to him, when an enormous roar gets him urged outside the tent, scrambling but snatching up bad news and slinging the other rifle over his shoulder (you never know when you need a back up, right?)
in the back of his mind, he's trying to scan his surroundings for anyone - anything, a half panic thinking well if i'm dead, no doubt everyone else has come to join me. a shock of keyleth's red hair, grog's unmistakable form, the silhouette of vex'ahlia sailing through the air or a shadow that looks too uncanny to be anyone but vax. a wafting of purple magic or scanlan's sharp, pitched voice. but as far as he knows, they aren't here. and there's no time as someone barks out the order: "cover them!"
bad news comes up immediately, miraculously unjammed and ready to go. he loads a shot, and he gets into a good position up against cover, seeing the frantic silhouettes of people running towards them - rabbits in a field of mud and gore, what look to be curled rows of metallic thorned vines snaking together.
percy is methodical in his shots, well-practiced, and his hits land with every high-risk roll he makes. if someone looks completely unfamiliar with a rifle, he offers to help without so much as a beat, sliding into position beside them and doing his best to teach on the fly. the only point he stops is to reach out when someone is close enough to the edge trench. if allowed, grabbing them by the forearm, easing them down. ]
Here, here we go... easy does it now...
[ the smell of gunpowder is hot in the air, bad news snaking heat from its barrel. ]
THE DESCENT
[ the snow falls and percy feels an intense jag of yearning pitch inside of him. it yawns wide and cavernous for whitestone, for his sister, for the isle of glintshore, for the overwhelming heaviness of orthax striking him down.
he's got both hands around bad news, regulation rifle strapped to his back as he walks among the stretches, eyes up at every vantage point he, as a gunman, can imagine, ready at a moment's notice to fire. he may be accompanying you as a stretcher bearer or even as a weak and tired patient on said stretcher, or he may be taking a moment's rest to count out what ammunition he has left in a pouch at his hip. regardless, he stalks, and as strangely bookish as he might look with his glasses perched on his nose and the mud in his fine, white hair under his hat, he looks as though he very much means business.
those who may be lining up to shoot at a regency solider peering up over their ledge of cover to get in an attack of opportunity, percy will aid in other ways. not with his gun, but with a hand and a soft plume of almost unsettlingly alive smoke climbing up over his collar. while the injured parade behind him, he casts hex silently on the target ahead, a soft mutter coming from him. ]
Strike now while the advantage is yours.
THE BEACH (DAVID VS. GOLIATH)
[ the black smoke flaring up from percy's coat is easy to blame on delirium. there's no time to waste as enough time has passed from the descent to the beach. a respite allows percy to cast hex on one regency soldier and fire off a shot, smash ribs with the gun stock. he's not a melee fighter, but what had the message said?
expendability?
hadn't he already caused enough trouble as it were? this would be... some sort of repentance, perhaps. it doesn't fix the self loathing, but does it provide a balm for it? maybe. he lets the stronger of their forces finish off a hexed target quickly, the black smoke fluttering from one soldier to another of percy's choosing as the spell's yet to complete and his concentration is precision focused, best that it can be. of course, all good things wear down in time, and percy - a little breathless, eyebrows screwed tightly, waves off one last withering tendril of smoke. ]
I can't -
[ as someone smashes straight into his face with an elbow, glass of his spectacles cracking and sending him down.
(how he makes it to the boats headed for the marie antoinette is anyone's guess.) ]
ANCHORS AWEIGH
[ someone come fix his fucking glasses please, he's doing his best!!!!!
aka a wildcard where percy is pretty fucking blind rip. ]