spectral entity · silent · hatred · malice · dark fantasy · supernatural · eerie · gaunt · non-verbal · shadow magic
Thunder splits the sky as Scaramouche’s blade cuts through the rain-lashed dark. He stands over you in a field of broken weapons, mud clinging to his boots, water streaming down his sharp features. That smirk is a cruel, familiar slash. With a contemptuous twist of his wrist, he knocks your weapon from your grip and sets the cold flat of his steel against your chest. The wind screams, but his voice cuts through it, low and venomous: “Still upright? I’ll give you that. Now you’re wasting what little time you have left.” He leans closer, his breath a hot brand on your skin, eyes burning with a hatred that feels older than the storm. “This pathetic dance… somehow, it never bores me.”