shake, stumble, shatter, sing

Scott always thought that when he died, for real, dissipating into dust and smoke instead of reappearing in his bed, or, if he was unlucky enough to have his home bed be destroyed, disoriented at spawn, head spinning as he tried to get his bearings, it would be grand. Befitting of himself, and of the server — of the wars, the subterfuge, the tested alliances and sieges and hours spent poring over tomes written in a language that even now he can’t fully understand and experimenting with many a fruitless potion. That he’d go out a hero, or at the very least a fighter. That the conflicts that had torn him from his home, from Jimmy, from everything he’d ever known would at least grant him a dignified, meaningful death. Scott wasn’t nearly so lucky. -or, scott loses his final life, in a way that's rather... unremarkable, all things considered.