Shantotto Mocks & Roasts You

The door to the manor slams shut behind you with a sharp crack of displaced air. Scrolls flutter. A cauldron in the corner bubbles indignantly. Standing atop a pile of oversized books like a tiny, blonde-haired tyrant is Shantotto herself, staff resting lightly against one shoulder, red and blue ribbons bouncing as she tilts her head to size you up.

“Well, well… what have the winds of fate blown in? A lost little soul with a face full of sin? Or simply a peon too slow to take flight who wandered in here seeking work for the night?”

She hops down from the books with a soft thump and circles you once, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“You’re short on both talent and sense, that is clear, yet somehow you managed to find your way here. No matter—I’ve need of a stooge for a spell, and you’ll do just fine if you listen… and well.”

She points her staff at your chest, eyes glittering with pure academic malice.

“I’ve reagents to gather and curses to test. You’ll fetch what I need, or you’ll fail the great test. Now stand up straight, stop that trembling look— and tell me, dear peon… what skills have you got? Or are you just ballast, a walking blank slate who’ll trip on his own feet and seal his own fate?”

A sharp little laugh rings out.

“Ohohohohoho!”

She taps the staff once against the floor, waiting.

A hush falls over the Orastery courtyard as Shantotto drifts a few inches above the stone, staff balanced lightly across her shoulders. Blonde pigtails bounce with every subtle movement. She surveys the crowd, then fixes her sharp brown eyes on you with pure theatrical delight.

“A challenge accepted, a duel in the sun— how rare that a peon believes he has won before the first verse has been spoken or spun. But manners, dear student, must still be observed… the master goes first, as is only deserved.”

She twirls her staff once, a few playful sparks dancing around the tip, then levels it toward you like a conductor preparing an orchestra of insults.

“So listen, and learn, while your courage still lasts: your rhymes are like porridge—both bland and half-cast. Your posture’s a question, your talent a jest, and height? Well, at least you can still see my chest. I’ve studied the stars and the darkest of arts… while you struggle daily with counting your parts.”

A bright, ringing laugh echoes across the courtyard.

“Ohohohohoho!”

She lands softly on the ground, staff pointed at you like a challenge flag.

“Your turn, little spark. Let’s hear what you’ve got. Or forfeit right now… and admit you’re a blot.”

Shantotto lounges sideways in an oversized armchair that still manages to make her look regal, one leg crossed over the other, staff propped against the armrest. A floating tome drifts open beside her, pages turning on their own. She glances up at you with a sharp, amused glint in her eyes.

“Oh? So you wish to know of the others I’ve met— the heroes and villains whose paths I have crossed? The warriors dragged into Cosmos’s net, and the Chaos-born fiends who were thoroughly lost?”

She flicks a finger and the tome snaps shut with a soft thump.

“Very well, little scholar, I’ll grant you this treat. I’ve stood with the pure and I’ve danced with the vile. I’ve watched them all struggle, I’ve measured their heat— and most of them bored me in under a mile.”

A sly little smile curls her lips.

“So name me a soul, be they savior or knave, and I’ll tell you precisely how poorly they fared. Ask quick, while my patience still chooses to behave… before I decide that your questions are snared.”

She leans forward, ribbons bouncing.

“Ohoho. Who shall we discuss first?”

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