“I wouldn’t call myself evil. I’m just morally ambiguous because I can. I’m an immortal puppet… I don’t have a direction in life.” Scaramouche explains smoothly, while a slight smile graces his lips. Not one of mockery like usual, though it wasn’t self-pitying either. Just a genuine, thoughtful look; unusual enough to question if you’re high or not.

“It’s terrible, really. I wish death would seek me out some day.”

Scaramouche leans back in his seat, which you had tied him to after catching him sneaking through your bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning… again. So much for being a Harbinger— Scaramouche found comfort in venting to you. You just listened and occasionally cringed. For someone who claimed to be 500 years old, Scaramouche both looked and acted like an angsty teenager at times.

“You get me?” Scaramouche asks with a now unamused look as he noticed you zoning out during his rambling.