trinket groans in a way that vex’ahlia likes to think she understands completely. it’s when she hears the quiet murmur of percy’s voice that she feels she can relax – only she does not. she cannot. still, in case there are more she hovers over the gunslinger like a cornered den mother. they need to leave, to find camp now. she takes inventory of each and every one of their band of misfits – and they know the usual teasing they reserve for cases will no longer be funny, at least, not for quite some time.
trinket nudges himself down, offering a snout and head for percy to cling to before he lifts up the wounded man to carry as his mother requested. it’s when vex’ahlia stops her sharp warning glare at vox machina to stare down the de rolor. sharp brown eyes bore into blue ones, and despite the way her brow has furrowed her hardness is gone, replaced with nothing but confusion.
it also is a warning – that they will talk about this later, in private. where percy does not have to explain whatever this is to the lot of them. only vex. at least for now. she stops her boring into him to look back towards her worried brother and company. her features lighten again – being stern takes more energy than she is used to.
“everything’s alright, dears. percival and i were both shot, but –”
and she feels dizzy of all things – suddenly, like it’s caught up to her, faster than it has in such a long time, and she grasps at her wound with a wince – one that feels nothing but the flow of hot blood. “if you could, pike…”
but she can’t finish the request with a please. she leans against trinket and shuts her eyes slowly. she hears everyone distantly – vex is tired, but she’ll be fine. she has to be. pike’s healing touch gives her a second wind, and thankfully so; wanting to get percival alone to interrogate him is all she can focus on. as soon as they make camp.
It is hard to meet her gaze. He only holds it long enough to understand her warning; then he flees, eyes seeking out Trinket instead, as though the bear would do anything but mirror his mother’s attitude. Still, it’s easier to pretend with Trinket. Pike’s magic floods into him with a touch from her, and for the first time since before their initial battle, Percy feels alright. He isn’t dizzy, at least. On the other hand, he feels like emptying his stomach and running all the way to Whitestone and let the Briarwoods finish the job.
Desperate for a reason to not look at Vex or even acknowledge her existence, he goes with Grog to gather firewood for their camp. It’s not like the literal goliath needs much help carrying it, but Percy’s eyes are keener (at least, behind a set of glasses) and he knows enough about trees to guide Grog to the least smoke-producing sorts. Together, they make quite the team, actually. Not to mention, Percy can purposefully lead Grog much further than what is necessary without the brute knowing the difference, giving Percy more time to stew in his nerves.
Eventually, though, they must return.
Despite the lack of firewood, most of the others have laid out their sleeping bags and settled in. Keyleth is still gnawing on a ration pack, which must have been what the others have decided to eat for dinner, too, too exhausted to go hunting for game. As soon as Grog has thrown down the firewood in a semi-decent pile, he goes to pass out on top of his own sleeping bag, leaving Percy to ignite the fire.
It normally wouldn’t take him more than a few seconds. But he wants to make sure that the others have settled in by the time he and Vex must eventually speak, so he puts on a bit of a show of trying and failing to start the fire. In the end, he manages to stretch it a good 10-15 minutes. When he looks up, the vast majority of Vox Machina already looks passed out. Adventurers fall asleep easy.
He swallows. This will be quite alright; he can lie to her. Perhaps. She’s pretty good at seeing through people, though, for all that he likes to think he’s a decent liar. At least he doesn’t have any moral qualms about lying to her. That’s something. Not that he has moral qualms about a lot of things. Those tend to take the backseat once you strike a deal with a demon.
Even though the evening is getting cold, he slips off his coat. He spreads it out on the ground next to her. Without a comment on how the right sleeve of his white shirt is covered in congealed blood, he sits down, and begins unbuttoning it. There is no point hiding it from her; she is not completely idiotic.
“Grog kept picking up pine,” he says nonchalantly as he shrugs off his shirt. Ice-cold night air hits his chest, but he swallows a hiss. The shirt is drenched with the help of his waterskin. It is ruined anyway, so he uses it as a cloth to wipe away the blood still stuck to the skin of his right arm. “Apparently, he doesn’t understand the concept of sap.”
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