A murderous, rageful, damning Ishbalan passion that could not be tempered. The formidable passion that slew armies, broke soldiers, and incited armageddons in miniature. Passion that would forge an ageless wall between the world and Ishbal, shading on both sides the generations of men who would keep embers warm... to spark the fire of the Civil War.
And even the most passionate of these ancient Ishbalans would retreat in fear from the temper of their descendant.
A temper directed now on just one man.
Scar stood at the state alchemist's turned back, staring at him with his sunset eyes. One man out by his lonesome. A mistake. His last. Branding this last moment with the emphasis it deserved, he moved his heavy hand to clap down onto his enemy's shoulder. Fingers squeezed. Runic tattoo banded along the bronzed flesh of his arm. This was his murder arm.
Scar's voice lowered like an executioner's axe, declaring sharply, "Use this moment wisely. Now is your last chance to make peace with God."
The state alchemist was silent. He did not turn. He did not move a muscle. After a long pause, he replied dangerously, "...you don't want to do that."
Scar hooded his dark, red eyes and weighed that threat. He was an angry man, but by no means agitated. "I don't?" he demanded, the sting of his quiet voice like a swipe from a frosted razorblade. Only words now. The pain comes later. "Who's this man -- this sinner who tells me what I should feel?"
The man turned, not quickly, not forcefully, but twisted to stare past the tether of Scar's hand on his shoulder. Their eyes met, and the state alchemist smiled.
He announced himself then, every word ensconced with a damning pulse as if alive itself. "I am... the Sphincter Alchemist."
Scar rumbled back: "The what--"
Scar's rough voice died the moment his face froze. And the morose, brooding man, the tortured soul, the ruined exile, the undying, the murderer, the brother... paused.
His jaw worked uselessly and his eyes twitched down to his pants. His nostrils flared.
"...oh."
