@windsettled said: "Truth hurts, but I don't regret having met you" / and also have this-
“Oh?” He inquires with arms crossed over his chest. What a cheesy damn thing to say, especially right now out of any other time.
“I can tell by how adamant you are in standing in my way.” He responds with a tinge of sarcasm and another element that Scaramouche isn’t keen on diving into right now. For some reason the sight before him stings. Why? What stings? He hasn’t been able to pinpoint just what that is quite yet, so he’s merely dismissing it as an annoyance, at least for the time being. Yet another perfect opportunity snatched away from him and this time at the hands of the bard who seems keen on defending the traveler with fang and claw. He’s even gone as far as to withdraw his bow and arrow, which hardly does anything to Scaramouche who’s determined on carrying out his ploy. “I’m sure you were aware this day would come, yes?” He questions rhetorically, not really in the mood to hear anything this damn green-cladded bard has to say right now. He holds his right hand out to his side, calling forth his catalyst that manifests itself, floating by its master’s side, starting to leech off of Scaramouche’s seemingly endless supply of elemental energy of his own. The perks of not being human, he is limitless, divine and wretchedly holy. He has little to say, his intention isn’t to draw out something that was only bound to happen.
“... So you choose the traveler then?” He hears himself ask, and that’s it isn’t it. This sting of an all too familiar feeling from many, many years ago at the hands of another who was also divinely blooded. Tossed and casted aside with his strings still attached until they were severed by the hand who fed him. Left on the side to live a long life on his own. How ridiculous, for him to have the time to linger upon such things, ponder on these… feelings. It’s upsetting, it angers him. Like in many chapters of his life he’s yet again standing on his own for the sake of one who got chosen over him. He laughs at his own idiocy… to think he’s come to stoop this low, lowering his defenses. How embarrassing, it only makes the rage he’s already feeling boil with newfound ferocity.
What was it about this stupid bard that made him think this time around that things might have been diff-
“Very well, you’ve made your choice.” He smiles, his smile forged out of plastic. “I’m sure Signora will appreciate me bringing your head to her on a silver platter, Barbatos.” He spits out that distasteful and cursed archon name.
Adjusting his hat he holds his arms out, the electro and lightning around him roaring curses that Scaramouche forced down his own throat for countless years. “Time to die, everyone!” He grins.
