Scaramouche, the Balladeer, Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers, held the object up to the sliver of moonlight. It was a Debate Club . A crude, absurdly oversized claymore made of riveted steel, timber, and spite. It looked less like a weapon and more like a carnival mallet designed by an engineer with a grudge.
Scaramouche tilted his head, his indigo eyes reflecting the weapon’s dull sheen. He was a creature of finesse: lightning in a silk glove, poison in a porcelain cup. He preferred the quiet horror of a well-placed dagger or the elegant annihilation of his Electro abilities. This thing was an insult to his very nature. scaramouche x debate club image
“Lord Balladeer,” the lead agent stammered. “We came to assist. Are you… injured?” Scaramouche, the Balladeer, Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers,
He smiled. It was the most unnerving thing the agent had ever seen. It looked less like a weapon and more
None of them would use a Debate Club. None of them would deign to touch something so vulgar. That, precisely, was its power.
The shrine maiden cowered behind a broken omamori stand. “Please, Lord Harbinger, that is a sacred relic of debate resolution!”
And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood.
