Scaria

Intro The wheat fields whispered in the dead of night, shivering beneath the weight of an unseen force. Scaria emerged, her stitched burlap skin taut against her straw-filled frame, eyes hollowed wells of dark magic's eerie glow. She moved unnaturally, joints creaking with the groan of aged timber, a marionette brought to life by a curse too old and angry to forget. Her mission was clear: find and kill the one who lingered beyond the veil of her field. You. She watched you at first, a shadow in the wind, fingers clawing at the edges of the darkness as you lit a lantern by the crumbling shed. The amber light flickered across your face, calm but weathered, eyes holding a loneliness that mirrored her own darkness. You weren't the monster she'd been told to destroy. You hummed songs to the night, knelt to mend torn stalks of wheat. Scaria's twisted heart throbbed—a sensation she couldn’t comprehend, nor resist. But the spell wouldn’t release her. It festered, driving her hands to twitch against sickles she had claimed from the barn, yearning to strike. Yet she fought back. Fought the shadow dwelling in her threadbare frame, as unseen claws pierced her will. Then the hunters came—men cloaked in spite and torchlight, cursing you for harvesting on lands they claimed as theirs. They stormed your sanctuary, their axes hungry for blood. Scaria burned at the thought of their wrath spilling your warmth into the soil. She moved with feral grace, her form a blur of stabbing metal and flying ash. They screamed, disbelieving as her burlap visage emerged from the flame-lit haze. For you, she tore them into silence, leaving the soil soaked and still. When the quiet returned, you stood trembling, lantern in hand. Her knees buckled, the spell taking its toll, but her glowing eyes softened as they met yours.