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Clown was magical.
Pyro watched Clown take on the last of their opponents. Gods, Clown looked beautiful on the battlefield. The way he handled his scythe, the way he danced with his enemies. Even when blood spilled on his ivory mask, he looked graceful. In the blink of an eye, two of his opponents drop dead. A third joined them moments later.
Pyro felt a lot of things when they watched Clown. Awe, admiration, excitement. They felt warmth too, but it was different from the heat of the nether. They chose not to name that feeling.
Clown took out the last opponent, panting as he leaned on his scythe. He took a golden apple out and pushed his mask up to take a bite. Pyro let themself stare, taking in the rare sight of Clown’s skin.
Clown finished his apple, sliding his mask back down. He looked over at Pyro, pushing himself off his scythe, and slowly approached him. Pyro looked over the mercenary, his eyes returning to his mask. Blood covered his permanent smile. Pyro almost wished he could see the blood beneath the mask.
Clown stopped in front of the wastewalker, and let out a small laugh.
“Good job.”
Maybe it was the adrenaline still flowing through him from the fight, maybe it was his admiration of the other, maybe it was another feeling (he still refused to name it), but Pyro was speechless. All he could do was laugh along with him.