Hey folks, I wrote this little story up for halloween. It's about a League of Legends character, and I figured it would be a fun writing excercise. I decided to throw it up on here cause I figured a lot of you probably play, and might get a kick out of how nerdy this whole thing is. I tried to take it as seriously as possible, just to see how it would turn out. Hope you dig it.
------
I saw it again three days ago. Thought it was a man at first, standing in our wheat field and looking right at me. A thin man, I thought, too thin. A scarecrow. But we never had a call to put up a scarecrow.
I turned to holler for my boy, only eight years old but already bold as a bulldog, and when I turned back the thing wasn't in the field anymore. No, it was right in front of me, no further than the length of my arm. I could have touched it if I'd wanted to. But I didn't want to, and you wouldn't have either.
Sticks, it was all sticks, but cracked and dried like old bones. Bits of cloth hung off like loose skin, and it had eyes. Living, glowing eyes. They looked at me, and they knew me, and they hated me.
What I saw there was no scarecrow. It was what my grandpa would have called a Harbinger, a bringer of some terrible doom. I closed my eyes against the dread of it, the green eyed terror. And then it was gone.
The next day, the crows came.
It all happened just like the stories from the neighboring farmsteads. I'd heard, but never believed. Who would have believed such tales from those superstitious folk? Farm hands run off all the time. They fall in love or think they'll strike it rich in some other place. And the children? Well, what child hasn't thought to test himself in the big wide world before his parents decided he was ready?
I dismissed those stories. And I was wrong.
We both saw them, my boy and me. At first they just circled, dark specks in the pure blue sky. By late afternoon they had descended into the fields, and there they kept their vigil. Red, red eyes. My boy wanted to run into them, scare them off. I told him to stay with me, but like I said, he was a bulldog.
He ran into them like a coyote into a herd of cattle, and not one of them moved or even seemed to blink those deep bright eyes. When he came back, slower now, he wasn't like himself. My boy never cried, but now his face was white and wet.
"They're eating," he wailed, but no matter how many times I asked him what, he wouldn't, couldn't, tell me.
----
More and more crows arrived. By yesterday morning, they were a storm. By then I knew. Knew this was not right, was a real danger to my boy and me. I tried to lead us out, strapped everything I could think to bring along onto our old Mule, Jackson, and started down the path toward the nearest town.
We didn't get half a mile before the crows made a wall in front of us, colliding with each other with no concern for their own survival. Unnatural. I held my boy's head in my arms, tried to protect him as we ran back to the farmhouse. I didn't see what happened to Jackson, but I heard him cry out, one short bray, and then nothing.
Inside, I wrapped my bleeding arms and prayed.
-----
They circle, circle, and all the time the cawing. I am alone now. Last night, my boy finally fell asleep. I thought to let him rest, to maybe rest myself. I only closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again it was there. The Harbinger.
It stood over my boy, its scarecrow arms thrown wide, a thin green line running, flowing, from my boy's chest to its own. From my boy's heart. He was pale and motionless, and I knew at once that he would die. I stood to launch myself at this thing which had taken so much from me so quickly.
But when I rose, I found myself wracked with a terror like none I had ever known. My boy, my son, the only thing I had ever loved in this life was dying on the floor and I fled. I tore open the door and bolted into the twilight, screaming, screaming, screaming.
And then I stopped. As suddenly as the feeling had come upon me, it left. Again I was aware of my surroundings. The crows were everywhere, unmoving, watching. A new fear gripped me, but this time from within rather than without.
As slowly as I could, I crept back inside. The crows cawed at me, a sound like laughter, and I knew my boy was dead. Inside, the scarecrow had vanished. Where my boy had been, now lay a withered husk. I would have gone to him, wrapped what was left of him in my arms and wept, had I not seen the movement. A bulging in what had once been his chest, as if something inside was trying to get out. I stood, not moving, not breathing, and watched. Dried flesh cracked and a beak emerged, then a head, then wings. The crow tore itself out of my boy then hopped toward the door.
How did I know it was him? A father knows. If you have children, you understand.
I watched it take wing and join the others, heard the cacophonous storm of cawing. A welcome. And then they were gone, as if none of it had ever happened.
I know I can never bring my son back. Know that vengeance is a fool's notion for a farmer like me. But it is all that I have. And when I find this thing, this Harbinger of my doom, I swear to whatever god will listen that it will burn.
------
I saw it again three days ago. Thought it was a man at first, standing in our wheat field and looking right at me. A thin man, I thought, too thin. A scarecrow. But we never had a call to put up a scarecrow.
I turned to holler for my boy, only eight years old but already bold as a bulldog, and when I turned back the thing wasn't in the field anymore. No, it was right in front of me, no further than the length of my arm. I could have touched it if I'd wanted to. But I didn't want to, and you wouldn't have either.
Sticks, it was all sticks, but cracked and dried like old bones. Bits of cloth hung off like loose skin, and it had eyes. Living, glowing eyes. They looked at me, and they knew me, and they hated me.
What I saw there was no scarecrow. It was what my grandpa would have called a Harbinger, a bringer of some terrible doom. I closed my eyes against the dread of it, the green eyed terror. And then it was gone.
The next day, the crows came.
It all happened just like the stories from the neighboring farmsteads. I'd heard, but never believed. Who would have believed such tales from those superstitious folk? Farm hands run off all the time. They fall in love or think they'll strike it rich in some other place. And the children? Well, what child hasn't thought to test himself in the big wide world before his parents decided he was ready?
I dismissed those stories. And I was wrong.
We both saw them, my boy and me. At first they just circled, dark specks in the pure blue sky. By late afternoon they had descended into the fields, and there they kept their vigil. Red, red eyes. My boy wanted to run into them, scare them off. I told him to stay with me, but like I said, he was a bulldog.
He ran into them like a coyote into a herd of cattle, and not one of them moved or even seemed to blink those deep bright eyes. When he came back, slower now, he wasn't like himself. My boy never cried, but now his face was white and wet.
"They're eating," he wailed, but no matter how many times I asked him what, he wouldn't, couldn't, tell me.
----
More and more crows arrived. By yesterday morning, they were a storm. By then I knew. Knew this was not right, was a real danger to my boy and me. I tried to lead us out, strapped everything I could think to bring along onto our old Mule, Jackson, and started down the path toward the nearest town.
We didn't get half a mile before the crows made a wall in front of us, colliding with each other with no concern for their own survival. Unnatural. I held my boy's head in my arms, tried to protect him as we ran back to the farmhouse. I didn't see what happened to Jackson, but I heard him cry out, one short bray, and then nothing.
Inside, I wrapped my bleeding arms and prayed.
-----
They circle, circle, and all the time the cawing. I am alone now. Last night, my boy finally fell asleep. I thought to let him rest, to maybe rest myself. I only closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again it was there. The Harbinger.
It stood over my boy, its scarecrow arms thrown wide, a thin green line running, flowing, from my boy's chest to its own. From my boy's heart. He was pale and motionless, and I knew at once that he would die. I stood to launch myself at this thing which had taken so much from me so quickly.
But when I rose, I found myself wracked with a terror like none I had ever known. My boy, my son, the only thing I had ever loved in this life was dying on the floor and I fled. I tore open the door and bolted into the twilight, screaming, screaming, screaming.
And then I stopped. As suddenly as the feeling had come upon me, it left. Again I was aware of my surroundings. The crows were everywhere, unmoving, watching. A new fear gripped me, but this time from within rather than without.
As slowly as I could, I crept back inside. The crows cawed at me, a sound like laughter, and I knew my boy was dead. Inside, the scarecrow had vanished. Where my boy had been, now lay a withered husk. I would have gone to him, wrapped what was left of him in my arms and wept, had I not seen the movement. A bulging in what had once been his chest, as if something inside was trying to get out. I stood, not moving, not breathing, and watched. Dried flesh cracked and a beak emerged, then a head, then wings. The crow tore itself out of my boy then hopped toward the door.
How did I know it was him? A father knows. If you have children, you understand.
I watched it take wing and join the others, heard the cacophonous storm of cawing. A welcome. And then they were gone, as if none of it had ever happened.
I know I can never bring my son back. Know that vengeance is a fool's notion for a farmer like me. But it is all that I have. And when I find this thing, this Harbinger of my doom, I swear to whatever god will listen that it will burn.
