Some Sort of Scarecrow

Once, he was a man. A farmer, a protector of the land, devoted to the golden fields that had fed his family for generations. But when the great blight came, the earth turned against him. Desperate, he sought the wisdom of an old hermit—one who spoke of ancient pacts. A sacrifice was made. A soul was given. When the first frost fell, the man was no more. His flesh turned to burlap, his bones to brittle branches. His arms, outstretched like a silent plea, became twisted talons. The crows that once fed on his fields now fled at his presence. His voice, swallowed by the wind, whispered only in the rustling of dying leaves.

Yet, through sorrow, purpose remained. The land flourished once more, nourished by his sacrifice. And when the autumn winds howl and the skies grow dark, he stands eternal—a guardian, a warning, a legend.

For the gamer, this is more than a haunted vision—it is a symbol of vigilance, of sacrifice, of the battle between control and chaos. Every move, every strike, must be as calculated as the scarecrow’s silent watch. 

The field is yours to protect. Will you rise, or will you burn?