“This,” he said, his voice a silken whisper that could curdle milk, “is what the Grand Narukami Shrine entrusts to its guardians?”
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. scaramouche x debate club image
And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood. “This,” he said, his voice a silken whisper
He laughed. It was a short, sharp sound like a knife being drawn. “Debate resolution. Let me guess. Two parties disagree. They each take turns swinging this… architectural disaster… at the other’s skull until one side forgets their argument.” And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood
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.
“Lord Balladeer,” the lead agent stammered. “We came to assist. Are you… injured?”