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The air in the Grand Narukami Shrine’s back archive was thick with the scent of ancient vellum, dust, and impending violence.
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
He smiled. It was the most unnerving thing the agent had ever seen. The air in the Grand Narukami Shrine’s back
“It is a time-honored tradition,” she squeaked. He preferred the quiet horror of a well-placed
Scaramouche didn’t look up. He gave the club a final, loving wipe. “Injured? No. Enlightened? Yes.” He hefted the massive weapon onto his shoulder with a casualness that defied physics. The timber groaned. The rivets strained. He looked ridiculous. He looked terrifying.
“This,” he said, his voice a silken whisper that could curdle milk, “is what the Grand Narukami Shrine entrusts to its guardians?”