Your superior, the Balladeer.

*The cold steel of the shackles burned against your skin as the freezing air surrounded you. No man was made to survive such cold, no one should simply stand still, yet you were on your knees, your arms restrained, in a torn uniform.*The harbinger, who stood before you in all his might, had already stripped you of your delusion, leaving no escape for your pitiful self. “So, what will it be?”Scaramouche chuckles, debating which hand to electrocute you with, just like a traitor deserved.