[Like this, he doesn't even have the dignity of being able to face his death head on, try as he might to lift his arms one last time. The divine hand above him dissipates into nothing, shadows sparkling away into the glitter of a dying star, drifting down onto the stage over the two of them.
At the words, he laughs again - less manic-edged, and this time sounding tired in the way he's sounded a few times before.
He doesn't say anything in response to that. He doesn't feel he has to. In a place like this, between beings - creations - like them, what is there to put into words? Nothing that isn't already left unsaid but understood.
As the blast of shadow races toward him, he watches it to the end.
Chandra's voice, at last, rings out - commanding, piercing through the cracking and shredding sounds of shadows hitting their mark, rending Scaramouche very nearly in two down the center.
And so, the pitiful creation reaches the end of its story, and the end of the story it had built around itself. A foolish thing, born from nothing and returning to nothing, with nothing at all to show for the pointless life it lived.
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At the words, he laughs again - less manic-edged, and this time sounding tired in the way he's sounded a few times before.
He doesn't say anything in response to that. He doesn't feel he has to. In a place like this, between beings - creations - like them, what is there to put into words? Nothing that isn't already left unsaid but understood.
As the blast of shadow races toward him, he watches it to the end.
Chandra's voice, at last, rings out - commanding, piercing through the cracking and shredding sounds of shadows hitting their mark, rending Scaramouche very nearly in two down the center.
And so, the pitiful creation reaches the end of its story, and the end of the story it had built around itself. A foolish thing, born from nothing and returning to nothing, with nothing at all to show for the pointless life it lived.
Scaramouche is dead.]