“This,” he said, his voice a silken whisper that could curdle milk, “is what the Grand Narukami Shrine entrusts to its guardians?”
None of them would use a Debate Club. None of them would deign to touch something so vulgar. That, precisely, was its power. scaramouche x debate club image
He smiled. It was the most unnerving thing the agent had ever seen. “This,” he said, his voice a silken whisper
The shrine maiden cowered behind a broken omamori stand. “Please, Lord Harbinger, that is a sacred relic of debate resolution!” He smiled
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, 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.
“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.”
