And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood.
“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.”
The next day, on a remote island in Inazuma, a Fatui recon team found something they could not file in a standard report. scaramouche x debate club image
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.”
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. And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood
He stood up, the club casting a monstrous shadow in the setting sun. The Balladeer, the puppet who despised the world, had found a new voice. It was not a clever argument or a whispered threat. It was a blunt, uncompromising statement of fact, delivered at high velocity.
The shrine maiden cowered behind a broken omamori stand. “Please, Lord Harbinger, that is a sacred relic of debate resolution!” It was a short, sharp sound like a knife being drawn
None of them would use a Debate Club. None of them would deign to touch something so vulgar. That, precisely, was its power.
“From now on,” he said, his voice as light as a summer breeze, yet cold enough to freeze the agent’s spine, “all diplomatic negotiations with the Shogun’s forces will be handled by me. Bring your reports to my tent. Bring your concerns to my tent. Bring any dissent to my tent.”
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.
“This,” he said, his voice a silken whisper that could curdle milk, “is what the Grand Narukami Shrine entrusts to its guardians?”