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Kabukimono - Blog Posts
I happen to have been talking to a Kazuha bot and accidentally acquired ideas for a Kazuscara fic...
((Some information on what the fic would basically be about under the cut))
So... The story would pratically be:
It would be an AU in a way, a "what if" story of Kazuha meeting a Wanderer ((the one closer to how he acts on Simulanka that is));
The fic would also be about Wanderer finally telling someone else ((and trustworthy)) about his past and coming to forgive himself over what he did to the bladesmiths and shit;
Stuff get heated on accident lol. I blame the bot;
Kazuha and an oc of mine (because traveller wouldn't make sense) have been travelling together for a while before something lends them to finding Wanderer and end up taking him out to drink tea
Wanderer recognizes Kazuha after a while so he decides to have a solo moment with leaf boy to talk to him about... Stuff to do with his family... You get where I am going ya?
The rest is up to if I write the fic lol. Just know there may be a lil hot scene because the bot caused it and being a asexual bish I found it funny to indulge into that. It's not the main focus tho, so it doesn't really matter for me... Just know Kassachi will be the dom one...
Anyhow, that's it!!
hold that heart close... happy birthday, wanderer!!
saw some cool clothes I wanted to draw! 🖤
everything stays right where you left it
everything stays but it still changes
I
not dead yet
but I can see us lost in the memory August slipped away into a moment in time
Poor marionette
finally the third part of … “due to an incident while investigating a ley line, our past selves have appeared..?!” a short comic series about kabukimono + ajax meeting childe + scara
part 1
part 2
its still so fucking funny how wanderer went from a feared fatui harbinger who almost became a god to a college student
Hello everyone! Sorry for not posting for so long:< I was fighting the art block demons:3 have some Genshin art for the wait!!
Melody of the Forgotten
The grand opera house of Sumeru City was the jewel of the nation’s artistic world, a towering edifice of stone and glass, alive with music and drama. Its stage had seen performances that transcended the mortal plane, and its corridors echoed with the whispers of stories long forgotten. You had been drawn to it from a young age, captivated by the splendor of the performances, the allure of the music, and the dream of one day performing on that hallowed stage yourself.
And now, that dream was within reach. You had been accepted into the opera’s prestigious company, your voice singled out as one with great potential, a rising star in the world of song. The opera house had become your second home, its backstage corridors a maze of opportunity and challenge.
But there was another presence in the opera house, one that the performers rarely spoke of—at least, not aloud. There were stories, rumors whispered among the stagehands and the older performers, of a phantom who haunted the opera house. He was said to be a master of disguise, a shadowy figure who could slip between worlds unseen. His moods were as tempestuous as the sea, his emotions unpredictable as the wind. He was both feared and revered, his influence felt in every corner of the grand theater.
No one had ever seen his face. And those who claimed to know more often spoke in cryptic tones, as if afraid to say too much. Some said he wore a mask, hiding some hideous deformity, while others claimed that he was a spirit—an echo of an ancient, forgotten soul who could never rest.
You had dismissed these stories at first, focusing instead on your training. But soon, you began to notice strange things—small, unsettling signs that you were not as alone as you once thought. At times, you would catch a fleeting glimpse of a figure in the wings, watching your rehearsals. Doors that had been locked would mysteriously open, and you would hear faint whispers in the corridors when you were sure you were alone. Most unnervingly, though, you began to find letters—perfectly folded pieces of parchment, slipped under your dressing room door.
The first letter had been a simple compliment: “Your voice is like the first breath of dawn—pure, yet aching with potential. Do not waste it.” It was unsigned, written in an elegant hand, but you had a suspicion it was from the phantom.
From that point on, the letters became more frequent, sometimes offering advice on your performances, other times cryptic messages that left you pondering their meaning for hours. And slowly, you began to realize that the phantom, whoever he was, had taken an interest in you—an obsession, even.
One evening, after a particularly demanding rehearsal, you lingered on the stage, watching as the candles in the chandelier flickered, casting long shadows across the empty seats. The house was quiet now, the other performers having retired for the night. You stood alone in the vast, echoing space, your heart still pounding from the intensity of your singing. You could feel eyes on you, though you saw no one.
"Why do you hide in the shadows?" you called out, your voice barely above a whisper, yet confident.
There was no immediate response, but you could sense something shifting in the air. Then, from the darkness of the wings, a figure stepped into the dim light—tall, with a slender frame and an air of theatricality about him. His face was obscured by a half-mask, covering the right side of his face, leaving only his left eye visible, cold and calculating.
It was him. The Phantom.
Or rather, Scaramouche.
He was known by many names—the Balladeer, the Wanderer, the Sixth Harbinger—but here, in the shadows of the opera house, he was the phantom. His movements were precise, his posture one of practiced elegance, as though every step was part of an unseen performance. His dark hair framed his mask, and though his lips were hidden in shadow, you could feel the weight of his gaze on you.
"You're brave," he said, his voice smooth and velvety, with a hint of danger lurking beneath. "Most would flee at the mere mention of me. But not you."
Your breath caught in your throat, but you refused to look away. "You’ve been watching me."
He tilted his head slightly, a slow, deliberate gesture that sent a shiver down your spine. "Yes," he admitted, with no hint of apology. "Your voice—it is unlike anything I’ve heard in years. Pure, yet raw. It needs... guidance."
His words hung in the air, and you felt a strange mixture of fear and fascination. Scaramouche was as much a part of the opera house as the stone pillars and velvet curtains, and now he stood before you, a living mystery wrapped in enigma and shadow.
"I don’t need your guidance," you said, though your voice trembled just slightly. "I’ve made it this far on my own."
He chuckled, the sound low and mocking. "Is that what you think? Do you believe you’ve come this far through sheer talent alone? No... you’ve had help—whether you knew it or not."
His words sent a chill through you. "What do you mean?"
Scaramouche’s visible eye gleamed with amusement, and he took a slow step closer. "I’ve been behind the scenes, pulling the strings. I have arranged for you to be noticed by the company, whispered in the ears of those in power. Without me, you would still be singing for an empty hall. You owe me... everything."
Your mind raced, trying to comprehend what he was saying. Had he been manipulating your career from the start? The realization struck you like a cold wave of fear and anger.
"I didn’t ask for your help," you said, your voice firmer now, though your heart was pounding.
He laughed again, this time with more cruelty. "No. But I gave it nonetheless. And now..." His eye darkened, his tone shifting to something far more possessive. "Now you belong to me."
The finality in his voice left no room for argument, and for the first time, you felt the weight of his obsession settle over you. You had always thought of him as a distant figure, a myth that haunted the opera house, but now, here he was—real, tangible, and far more dangerous than you had imagined.
"What do you want from me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
Scaramouche’s gaze lingered on you, his eye narrowing slightly as if assessing your every thought. Then, in a swift motion, he moved closer, his gloved hand reaching out to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"I want your voice," he said softly, but there was a dark hunger in his tone. "I want it to sing only for me. I want to shape it, control it, make it perfect."
You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, his fingers cold against your skin. "You don’t understand," he continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, almost tender. "I have waited so long for something... someone... who could complete my music. I’ve seen mediocrity, incompetence, but you... you are different."
His obsession was suffocating, the intensity of his words sinking into your bones. You could feel the weight of his desire pressing down on you, and for the first time, you understood the full extent of his control.
"I’m not your puppet," you said, your voice shaking with fear and defiance.
Scaramouche’s lips curled into a cruel smile beneath his mask. "No... you’re not. You’re something far more precious. But make no mistake—you are mine."
The candlelight flickered as his words echoed in the empty opera house, and you felt the walls closing in around you. You were trapped in his web, caught between fear and fascination, between a desire to run and an inexplicable pull that kept you rooted in place.
"I can make you a star," he said, his voice turning soft, seductive. "I can give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Fame, fortune... all of it. All you have to do is sing for me."
You hesitated, the temptation of his offer gnawing at the edges of your resolve. There was something irresistible about his words, something that made you want to believe him, to trust him.
But deep down, you knew the truth. Scaramouche was no savior. He was a phantom, a manipulator, a creature of shadows who sought to control you for his own ends.
"You don’t control me," you said firmly, stepping back from him.
For a moment, Scaramouche’s smile faltered, his eye flashing with anger. But then, just as quickly, the mask of calm returned.
"Perhaps not yet," he said softly, though his tone carried an unmistakable threat. "But in the end, you will sing for me. Because there is no one else who understands you like I do. No one else who can bring out the true potential in your voice."
He stepped back, his form blending into the shadows once more, his presence as ghostly as ever.
"You will sing for me," he repeated, his voice lingering in the air as he disappeared into the darkness. "Sooner or later... you will."
The opera house was silent once more, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a curse. And as you stood alone on the stage, you knew that your fate was now intertwined with his, bound by the melody of his obsession.
TW: Puppet body, fake body
Scaramouche/Wanderer/Kabukimono/Kunikazushi fanart
Boy, dose he have a lot of names
I love him as a character and all the lore he brings with him. He is just amazing as a whole. His character arc is fascinating.
I included some head canons, that you I personally find perfect for him.
When he was created, I think Ei didn't include any.... Well *parts* and she intended to leave him genderless, but after waiking Kuni found that he was more comfortable with identifying as male and goes by he/him ( another i really like is Wanderer being a demiboy) Also his Puppet design isn't really how I envision Ei made him, but more like what I personally imagine when hearing Living Doll. It's not functional but so beautiful.
Also that after becoming Wanderer, he has cracks on his face from when he fell. It just has so much angst potential.
idk how to do backgrounds
Scaramouche Scaramouche will you do the fandango?
Merry crisis.
beautifully said
About Wanderer's Downfall
The moment when he loses the Gnosis was the moment he loses himself once again.
His weapon, his tool, his...toy.
He didnt want to rule a nation or to destroy another one just because; he wanted to be recognize as someone of value & worth of affection.
The moment he releases that he lost the battle and is going to get the gnosis taken back, is the moment when he starts to have a crisis.
His theatrics and his play of being a god ends; and he begins to plead, asking to please return his "toy" back to him.
He curses, filled with hatred & rage towards the ones that took his toy away, - even if it is for his own good and the sake of others - yet, he doesn't understands this.
"Anything but the gnosis...!"
As a kid, he treasures his toys with great care, and as a kid, he loses he's own control when there are no more toys to play anymore.
He screams & cries, then the wires connecting him to the mecha break aggressively.
He even breaks and hangs from the machine where he is, humiliating himself in desperation to recover what he believes belongs to him.
"I'll never... I'll never go back!"
When his toy was taken away, he lets us know that he doesn't want to go back to his life as The Balladeer.
Where his only purpose was to be subject of experiments and to be used for someone else's plans.
Then he stumbles in his recklessness...
Just to fall deep in his misery & feeling of emptiness.
Now, he's shut down and doesn't respond to any stimulus.
It looks like he enters in a process of grief or depression, which is totally understandable.
He lost a precious thing, something he considered that made him worth of affection & respect, something he has been searching all his life.
He is again… lost in a deep slumber.
But he's not they boy he used to be hundred of years ago.
He's not Kunikzushi anymore, nor he is Kabukimo or The Balladeer, or even Scaramouche.
He doesn't even have a name.
But that's no sign of defeat or emptiness, it is a sign of a new beginning, a sign of choice.
The story of the puppet soldier & the ballerina doll really help to understand him better.
The search to be smth else than a simple & still soldier, to become a beautiful ballerina.
Being threw to the fire and turning into ashes.
But discovering at the end that there's still a hearth within the soldier.
Fortunately, for his own sake…or the good of others, he has people that will help him find a new meaning in his new life.
Not as the puppet of an archon, nor as a Fatui Harbinger, & not even as an omnipresent god.
But as a simple, yet persevering Wanderer.
