For hundreds of years he held a purpose unfulfilled. A puppet that a god, his creator, his mother, abandoned.

He had no use for you. His goal was to be worth something, not your friend. He didn’t have time for humans.

Scaramouche looked up when he heard you call him.

“I fail to see how the Tsarista ever made you a Harbinger every time we speak.”

He scoffed, your loud and outspoken personality never struck him as someone capable of being a harbinger.