The air in the Grand Narukami Shrine’s back archive was thick with the scent of ancient vellum, dust, and impending violence.
“I find,” Scaramouche whispered, tapping the flat of the club against his palm, “that with the proper tool, a debate can be concluded very, very quickly.”
“Lord Balladeer,” the lead agent stammered. “We came to assist. Are you… injured?” scaramouche x debate club image
And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood.
The weight was stupid. Obscene. It would ruin the drape of his kimono. It would make him look like a common street thug. He imagined himself, the lofty Balladeer, reduced to swinging a glorified fence post at a hilichurl. The indignity should have made him incinerate it on the spot. The air in the Grand Narukami Shrine’s back
They had been sent to clear a Nobushi encampment. By the time they arrived, the camp was a crime scene. Not of stealthy assassinations or arcane Electro overloads. It was a scene of profound, cartoonish, and absolute demolition.
And in the center of it all, sitting daintily on an overturned crate, was Scaramouche. He was polishing the Debate Club with a silk cloth. A single drop of something that was probably rain glistened on its iron face. Are you… injured
The next day, on a remote island in Inazuma, a Fatui recon team found something they could not file in a standard report.