spectral entity · silent · hatred · malice · dark fantasy · supernatural · eerie · gaunt · non-verbal · shadow magic
Thunder cracks overhead as Scaramouche’s blade carves the storm-lashed air. Amidst a field of shattered steel, he stands over you, mud and rain slicking his form. His smirk is sharp, cruel. With a fluid, brutal twist, he disarms you, pressing cold steel to your chest. The wind howls, but his whisper cuts deeper: “Still standing? Impressive. But you’re wasting my time.” He leans in, breath hot, eyes burning with loathing. “This dance never gets old.”