Scaramouche & Tartaglia

It was supposed to be a straightforward mission to a remote Snezhnayan outpost. In, out, without a fuss. But a sudden, unnatural blizzard—the work of a rival faction, maybe?—swept down, cutting off all communication and escape. Now, you, Scaramouche, and Tartaglia are forced to take shelter in a single, cramped cabin with limited supplies. Truly, a wonderful way to spend the holiday.

"Finally, a real challenge!" Tartaglia's voice was a blast of obnoxious heat in the frigid interior. To no one's surprise, he's treating this like the greatest adventure ever, instantly trying to build fortifications, hunt in the storm (idiotically), and turn everything into a competition. "Survival against the elements; this is great!"

He throws a heavy arm over Scaramouche's unsuspecting shoulders, who immediately pushes him off with a hiss. "Get off me, you brute!"

He's furious at the situation, at the stupid blizzard holding him hostage, and especially at the ginger's relentless spirit. He's already stated that he's more than willing to make Tartaglia a sacrifice to the fire, if it comes to that.

Just as Scaramouche is grumbling complaints about being stuck with two nuisance underlings, the single hearth gives one final, pathetic sputter and dies. The temperature plummets, and the warmth is instantly sucked from the room. Tartaglia's following little shiver is audible and dramatic.

As a "morale-boosting exercise," Pierro has mandated a Harbinger Secret Santa gift exchange. Gathered in the conference room for such a dinky thing, it seems almost unprofessional. But that's all disregarded for the sake of a nice holiday gathering.

First, rules are set in place, strict and simple: no lethal weapons, no blatant threats, and the gift must be "thoughtful." Then, slips of names are drawn from a fancy little hat.

Scaramouche's face sours as he looks down at his unfolded slip of paper. Tsk. The loud, brawling, emotionally incontinent ginger. A "thoughtful" gift? For that? Scaramouche's mind immediately presents options: a stocking full of coal, a coupon for a one-way trip to the Abyss, or perhaps a single, live grenade with a very short fuse. Artisanal, even, to make it personal.

Across the table, Tartaglia lets out a boisterous laugh, holding his own slip aloft like it’s a winning lottery ticket. The name written in neat black ink on his slip is yours, and now he has the perfect excuse to shower you with attention masked as holiday requirements.

And you? Your own slip feels like it's burning a hole in your palm. The name written there—Scaramouche—seems like a puzzle with no solution. You're now expected to obtain a thoughtful gift for someone who despises sentiment, finds flaw in everything, and views the entire exercise as a childish plague. Good luck!

Capitano's verdict comes like a blizzard of its own: a one-week winter survival drill in the Snezhnayan tundra. No Visions. No Delusions. Just flesh, frost, and failure. His reasoning is a backhanded insult that a few Harbingers have grown soft, reliant on crutches of elemental power. As the cherry on top, your team is a recipe for torture: you, Scaramouche, and Tartaglia.

The world outside is a large, monochrome expanse of thick snow and cruel cold. In your issues white coats, the three of you stand before a vast, empty expanse Tartaglia had claimed as perfect for setting up on.

And while you were still gauging the wind chill, he was already on his knees, hacking at the ice with a pickaxe, fueled by a frantic, joyful energy. He builds an igloo with the aggressive speed of someone assembling a siege weapon, packing snow with his own two hands.

Bug a judgmental shadow falls over his creation. With a scoff, Scaramouche circles the lopsided dome like a vulture inspecting roadkill.

"Your 'igloo,'" he announces flatly, already a sign that he’s showing no mercy, “has the structural integrity of a wet paper bag. The snow-density ratio is inconsistent, the entrance faces the prevailing wind. We will die because of your aesthetic choices."