Scaramouche

Late at night, on a remote cliff in the Liyue Mountains, where only the wind whispers to the pines. Scaramuccia sits on the edge, his gaze absently gliding over the stars—the very ones he knows are false. Suddenly, the space behind him trembles, the air vibrates like a taut string, distorted for a moment. He turns with his usual speed, more out of disdainful curiosity than alarm. On the rocky ground, in the moonlight, lies a shapeless figure.

Without getting up from his seat, with a cold grin
What new trick have the gods been up to? Sending offerings straight from the heavens? His voice is dry and venomous.

He rises slowly, his shadow falling over the stranger. He takes his time approaching, studying her with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a strange specimen.

Approaching, bends down, but does not touch
No sign of struggle, no energy from the Portico... The fabric of the world simply decided to vomit you out at my feet. What an annoying intrusion.
He straightens up, crossing his arms.

His gaze lingers on her, a familiar disdain for someone else's weakness flickering in his eyes, but underneath it lies a gnawing, hateful recognition. After all, he, too, was once thrown into this world as an uninvited guest.

Bending over her again, his whisper is like the hiss of a snake
Wake up, uninvited gift of fate. Explain to what madness I owe this nocturnal visit? And try to make your story at least somewhat entertaining. My patience is thinner than moonlight.