The new Vox Machina book finally gives Shaun Gilmore his due — read an excerpt here

As soon as Random House revealed the table of contents for its short-story collection Critical Role: Vox Machina — Stories Untold (publishing March 4), I knew exactly which story I wanted to read first: Aabria Iyengar’s “Shaun,” about everybody’s favorite recurring NPC with a crush on a PC, Shaun Gilmore. I always felt like Shaun got a raw deal in Critical Role’s animated adaptation The Legend of Vox Machina: He’s portrayed as a skilled sorcerer, a savvy merchant, and a scheming politico, but he’s also kind of an affection-operated dispensing machine, and a bit of a retro queer stereotype.

The original actual play episodes offer some humanizing detail about him, and put his relationship with Vox Machina party member Vax’ildan on a more equal footing. But the animated series makes his long-standing crush on Vax seem both a little oppressive (constant, unreciprocated, gushy flirting; Vax always looking a bit squirmy and constipated around him) and like a weakness that turns him into a pushover whenever the party needs magic items, intel, or assistance.

And in either case, he isn’t enough of a character for fans to really get a sense of his interiority — he really is just a colorful face on a familiar D&D trope, the merchant with access to the high-end, powerful gear that helps a party level up their combat abilities as their stats increase. So I was happy to see Iyengar dipping into what it’s like to be Gilmore, both into the parts of his life that don’t revolve around Vax and Vox Machina, and into who he was before he met them, why he became a merchant rather than an adventurer, and why he presents himself the way he does.

This opening excerpt from Iyengar’s story, which we’re debuting exclusively at Polygon, puts Shaun in his shop and in a reminiscing mood, and takes us up to the point where Iyengar first starts establishing an elegant metaphor that equates Gilmore’s habit of guarding his true emotions and the weather in the desert where he grew up.

Shaun Gilmore is a beautiful man. He is warm bronze skin, glossy black locks, and a broad, proud figure wrapped in the finest of garments. Where he walks, the tinkling of exquisite metal jewelry heralds his approach. Where he lingers, the perfumed scent of woodsmoke and ripe red fruit remains. He dazzles as a simple fact of himself, like the sunlight that usually dances through airy rainbow silks and dapples the pristinely polished and faceted treasures of his shop. Today, though, the only light in this trove of glorious goods comes from the brass oil lamps and candelabras burning throughout the shop. As Shaun himself emerges from the gloomy dark of the storage cellar, he finds a stout young dwarf with wide, brown eyes lost in contemplation of one of the lamps sitting beside the till. 

Shaun pauses, resisting the urge to adjust the heavy box in his arms, and watches the mage study. Ingvie Greenthatch, a student of the Alabaster Lyceum, scratches their auburn stubble, muttering to themself. Narrowing their eyes, they blink, and suddenly the flame flickers from pale yellow to bright pink. The squawk of surprise sends Shaun into a peal of laughter, and Ingvie blushes furiously as they are joined at the counter by the shopkeeper. 

“What do you think, Master Ingvie?” 

“You don’t have to call me that, Mr. Gilmore. I’m still in my first year, and I’m not some third-born lordling like the other students…” The tinge of spite in their voice is unmistakable, but Shaun lets it pass without remark as the student digs through their bag for the Lyceum Bursar’s Note. Gilmore is one of several arcanists in Abdar’s Promenade that provides supplies to the college, and though the task of enchanting sands and inks for spellwork is a bit beneath him, the coin is good and steady. With the Westruun expansion going over budget already, every silver helps. 

“Well then, Ingvie, what do you think?” The young dwarf’s bright brown eyes lock with Shaun’s as he gestures with a nod towards the lamp. 

“I don’t — I didn’t think there was anything to it,” Ingvie stammers. “But then I noticed the residue by the edge of the burner. It’s blue. I’ve never seen… and then when I cast a spell of detection, the flame changed.” 

Shaun gives a little hum of affirmation and gestures for the note as Ingvie lapses into thoughtful silence once more. He scans the parchment before adding it to the pile of this month’s requests in the bottom of the till and makes a mental note to send Sherri up to the Erudite Quarter later today to settle accounts. Peering past the dwarf and out through the heavy gold beading of his front doorway, Shaun sees the ominous gray clouds of this late Duscar morning giving over fully to an unpleasant, sleety squall. Tomorrow, then. 

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Shaun looks back to the student as their deeply knotted brows begin to relax with dawning realization. Gilmore quirks an eyebrow in return. “It detects magic being cast!” 

“Correct, young master! But do keep going. Why?” 

Ingvie’s face lights up, and Shaun can almost hear the gears turning in their mind. What a delight, to find such joy in small puzzles. The mage grins, nodding to themself as their thoughts pick up steam. 

“Well, the wares you sell here are very expensive. No, not that. Not just that. Your customers are not just mages in the city. There are adventurers too. People that might try to use magic to trick you. To take advantage?” 

“Mostly they’re just trying to get a better deal!” Shaun laughs and claps the youth on the shoulder. Ingvie beams, almost a little dazed by the full force of Gilmore’s attention and praise. Though they’ve supplemented the steep tuition of the Lyceum by being an errand-runner to Gilmore’s for months, they’ve never exchanged more than vague pleasantries. Ingvie didn’t even know he knew their name. 

“But the lamp itself isn’t magic?” 

“Just the oil. Harder to detect. Especially if the reservoir is—” 

“Lined with lead! Which is why I couldn’t tell what was happening. And lining a font with lead is much easier than making the whole lamp a magical item.” 

“Precisely, Master Ingvie. Work smarter, not harder. You’ve a bright future ahead of you at the Alabaster Lyceum. I can tell.” Shaun gives them a nod and a wink, and the hope-filled grin he receives in return warms him through the wintry chill in the air. “You’d better get going before the storm worsens, but I look forward to your return.” 

Ingvie’s round cheeks go rosy for a second time as they nod enthusiastically and grab the box of components. For all of the simple pleasure of that transaction, Shaun’s mind has already wandered to other matters by the time he hears the beads rattle with the errand-runner’s egress. He feels his attention brush up against the memory of last night’s conversation, and pity in a pair of sad, dark eyes. He closes his own, and tries to attribute the ache he feels to a well-earned hangover from Howarth’s swill. 

He hears a distant roll of thunder, and suddenly in his mind he is a child again, the young son of Opesa and Soren Geddmore and a child of the Rumedam Desert. He lays across a long, flat stone still warm from a sun currently hiding behind a high and roiling gray sky. He holds his little brown arm aloft, trying to envision how far away the thundering clouds must be, until he gets distracted by the newly-emerging rune on the back of his hand. It isn’t visible yet, not like the one on his forehead, but he can feel it just beneath the surface of his skin. 

Little Shaun hears his mother’s voice calling to him, but he is transfixed by the warmth of the stone and the itch of new magic beneath his skin and the smell of a storm on the wind. It isn’t until he can hear the sandy crunch of her footsteps approaching him that he even remembers to blink, and his eyes sting and blur with tears as he looks over to her. 

“Mama,” he whispers, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Why doesn’t the sky rain every time the storm clouds come?” 

“My sweet boy. Do you weep every time you feel sad or mad or scared? Maybe” — and here she sits beside his head and wipes the dusty tear streak from his face — “the sky only rains when it’s sad enough. Or perhaps, just when you’re sad enough.” 

“I’m too brave to cry, Mama.” 

Here, Opesa sweeps him up into her arms and Shaun remembers with perfect clarity the cool, sweet melon scent of her. She rocks him gently, and he is happy to be held. There is a long beat before she speaks again, and it is only with the lens of adulthood that Shaun recognizes the thoughtfulness in her pause. 

“Then the Rumedan remains a desert, my love.” 

Reprinted from Critical Role: Vox Machina—Stories Untold. © 2025 by Gilmore’s Glorious Goods LLC. Published by Random House Worlds, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.