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Sorry, this one is a little late adventurers, I’ve been recovering from the plague. But I think you’ll appreciate the web that was woven this evening…
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The Marksman walks through the fog, unable to see his hand in front of his face. The cobblestone of the Franklin streets slowly transitions to mud and the Marksman thinks he may be straying into the stable area of the town until the fog gradually lifts revealing a bright country sky with soft, puffy clouds lazily crawling across the sky. Stalks of corn brush up against his face and he realizes he is in a country cornfield.
The Marksman crouches down, confused about how he was transported from the streets of Franklin to this cornfield. He surveys the area and sees nothing but corn as far as his eye can see.
*SNAP*
The Marksman hears the snap of a cornstalk and retreats further into the corn. He slinks through the field, trying to reorient himself behind the thing walking through the cornfield. That’s when he smells it… burnt flesh and hair. In the midst of the crisp and earthy cleanness of the cornfield a putrid in-human smell stings his nostrils. The Marksman stalks the being until he comes to a clearing and that's where he sees him.
The figure was partially masked, scraps of singed burlap obscure half of the man’s face, an auburn button sitting where his eye would be. His head is topped by a dusty top hat, and burnt scraps of what used to be a trench coat hang from his shoulders. His hand clutches a hand sickle.
What skin was visible was dirty and burnt. It was also leathery, marred by scarring from severe burns. The creature, though humanoid in appearance, could hardly be recognized as human, although maybe at one point it used to be. A faint memory plays at the back of the Markman’s brain… one of the Hero’s stories… a psychotic farmer… could this be… the Harvester? Surely not, he perished in the fire…
The Harvester walks to the center of the clearing to a scarecrow hanging on a post. The Scarecrow too was weathered, wearing a leather trench coat over a ragged pair of overalls. Whoever provided the clothes could have been a butcher as the clothes were stained burgundy. A sickle and hay fork are tied to the Scarecrow’s hands, a warning to potential trespassing pests of what might await them when the farmer showed up. A similar burlap mask serves as the face of the Scarecrow. The Marksman even noticed white wispy beard hairs coming out from beneath the mask. Corn silks? That’s a lot of detail for a scarecrow… and then he sees the structure. Hay protruded from beneath the overalls but that hay seemed to be stuffed into… a skeleton. The ragged, stained overalls, the white beard hair, the skeleton… this unlucky soul had unwittingly become the Harvester’s scarecrow.
“You won’t be needing this anymore,” grumbles the Harvester, pulling the leather trenchcoat from the Scarecrow.
He turns from the Scarecrow putting the jacket on.
*SHHHHKKKKK*
The Marksman hears the sound of a hay fork through wet hay and the Harvester roars, turning the reveal the hayfork had been stuck in his back. The Scarecrow stands, sickle in hand, vengeance in his eyes.
The Harvester scowls an even more putrid scowl, digging the hayfork from his back, hurling it at the Scarecrow. The hayfork grazes the Scarecrow’s leg, gashing its overalls, hay spilling out. The Harvester grips his sickle. The Scarecrow rips the hay fork out of the ground, and using it to help balance with its gashed leg, raises its own sickle…
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What happens next, Adventurer? Well, that’s up to you. The fate of the Harvester? The Scarecrow? What should the Marksman do? Drop your comment below, and check back in a week (times two), and see the conclusion of The Harvester vs the Scarecrow in a thrilling Part 2…
Narrated by Brandon Warner
