Scarecrow

A stench of death fills the air in a field of festering remains of livestock. The sky is dark, illuminated by a red harvest moon. The clouds are idle, stagnant, and grey. In the midst of the dead, the living feast on the rotting fat of melting organs. Worms borrow from earth to bathe in the blubber of what was once flesh. The birds peck and tear tendons from bone, removing eyes from the sockets of young bulls.

A creature stands alone in the center of the cemetary. He wears black stained burlap and smells of rotten eggs, brimstone. A hood covers the silhouette of what appears to be a man. The torn, frayed fabric snaps about and twists in the air as it catches the wind.

This shephard of death leans partially on a crooked reaper. Its blade is dull, chipped, and badly worn down. A crow flaps in the wind and lands on the mast of the pole. The body of the thing remains unmoving, a forgotten scarecrow that has been ignored by the feasting wild.

A group of men approach the rotting field from a treeline that is thick and twisted with vines. It has not rained as long as the group could remember. The autumn leaves crack and shatter like brittle glass. They attempt to remain quiet as they approach the field but the forest proves to be their enemy.

The crow screams loudly, lifts from the mast of the scythe and takes flight with the blasting wind. The dark figure begins to move, its body tears as if its limbs were breaking. The sounds of clattering bones tap wildly when the robed figure becomes animated.

It quickly turns around, its face unseen in the darkness within the hood of the stained burlap drapes. It raises an arm from its side. The long, blood stained black sleeve slides down to the creature's forearm. The torn, frayed fabric appears to be old, dried, and deathly.

The creature's flesh is rotten and home to maggots. Dried blood is crusted on grey flesh. Its fingers lack skin and muscle, their tips are boney. The scarecrow stops moving and appears to remain as still as a marble statue. Not another sound is made.

The wind picks up and blows heavily against the creature's back. The robes flare forward, pounding against the hurricane breeze. The wind is heavy and interrupts the feast. The sounds of the howling wind frightens the black birds. They leap from their dinner and begin circling the field, manic with hunger and lacking patience. The flock becomes thicker as more birds fill the skies until finally it blacks-out the light of the red moon which rises slowly over the canopy of the forest.

The group in the forest holds its ground. They remain still as they see the silhouette in the field move to face them. The leader draws back the hood of his cloak and turns to face his comrades. He moves a pale hand to hold the golden hilt of his sword slung behind his back.

The leader's hair is white, his ears pointed, his face is perfect and dashing, angelic in complexion. His eyes are brilliantly blue. His disposition reflects a wise, young, daring warrior. He wears the iron breastplate of his people, a silver lined robe wraps around pauldrons and his tunic is as red as roses.

In elvish, he speaks to his party, "He has noticed our presence."

The party is so quiet that each of them can hear the heartbeat of the one next to them. They dare not move, not until the elven leader gives the command. Their breath is heavy, quickening, preparing themselves for glory or death.

The elvish leader pulls the hilt of his sword, a distinctive click is heard before the whispering chime of elvish metal slides against the leather sleeve protecting the blade. The elven champion stands up and puts on his elaborately decorated helmet. The mohawk of flaring red horse hair flails behind his shoulders.

He raises his sword over his head and points it forward as he roars, "Te Edoin!"

He runs towards destiny, over the mounds of lard and death, the open field where only one thing stands. The scarecrow remains unmoving, the hand still held in the air, fingers pointing at the war party. The crows that circle the dark entity scream loudly with distress.

The party of the elves race behind their leader, crying loudly for they are prepared. They have prepared for this moment since they were born. They are trained for this and in death will they be remembered.