| Based on | Click to view |
| Artist | Keclo Jaxyn [gallery] |
| Time spent | 4 hours, 24 minutes |
| Drawing sessions | 3 |
| 16 people like this | Log in to vote for this drawing |
by Keclo Jaxyn » Sat Feb 25, 2017 4:38 pm
Name:
Personality:
Nightmare: (Real, random or specific to this adoptable!)
Artwork: (Optional - but will raise your chances!)
by Mimu » Sat Feb 25, 2017 6:04 pm
by Nanorat » Sat Feb 25, 2017 10:58 pm
)
by Scturn » Sun Feb 26, 2017 9:29 pm
by sewer connoisseur » Mon Feb 27, 2017 2:16 am
by Keclo Jaxyn » Fri Mar 03, 2017 9:22 am
by Keclo Jaxyn » Sat Mar 04, 2017 5:58 pm
w0lfman wrote:
Name ➟ The Marlboro Scarecrow
Personality ➟ Polite, gentlemanly, cunning, manipulative, lacking conscience, intelligent, driven by want for power.
He has an interesting perception of humanity, often appearing kind and polite at first meeting, his true intentions not apparent until he uses you for his own gain. Every move he makes is calculated to his own advantage, every word specifically chosen to give the impression that he is trustworthy. His crow friend flies about the town, learning information from the locals and whispering secrets in his ear. When you first meet the Marlboro Scarecrow, his ember eyes pick out your weakness, ready to use it against you the second it benefits him.
Nightmare ➟ In 1945 an old, fat farmer by the name of Mr. Willis owned a barley farm alone. It was on the edge of a small town. Although it was a small farm that only dealt in edible produce, Mr. Willis had become lazy in his old age and barely left his house to gather in the wheat. Instead, he sat around on the sofa all day, drinking gin and watching the TVs fuzz with dark eyes.
With Mr. Willis never leaving his farm, unlike when he was young and still passionate about his work, gossip began to circulate in the nearby village. Malicious rumours were spread through whispers - "I heard he died and the wheat has grown so tall that it has hidden the house, stopping anyone from retrieving the body", "Well I heard that the scarecrow came alive and stepped off its post, killing him in vengeance of letting the farm degrade so badly!" These rumours became so well known that the 'murderous scarecrow' became like an urban legend throughout the town, children often making up stories of the adventure it had been on.
One night, Mr Willis was sat on his porch, deflated eyes watching the sunset. The orange light danced off of the top of the barley and the outline of his scarecrow. He grumbled to himself, knocking his flask against his teeth as he took messy swigs from the golden liquid between drags of his cigarette, thinking about how useless the damn thing had been. There had been more crows than ever around his crops since he had built it, only a couple years prior. Thinking back on this time, a time where he had been productive and passionate to work on a farm, depressed him. What had changed? He dropped his flask on the wood with a clunk, then threw his cigarette drunkingly towards the scarecrow as if he could blame it for his troubles. A sigh whistled out from beneath his moustache and he staggered off to bed, slamming the door on its hinges behind him.
What Mr. Willis didn't know was, as he slept, the cigarette had stayed alight and now this glowing ember had spread. All it took was a tiny gust of wind and the golden flame quickly grew into a burning hot forest. The unkempt wheat had provided ample kindling to grow the fire roaring and red. The farmer slept soundly, smelling of stale alcohol as his property was engulfed with the tentacles of heat. They wrapped around his home, his bed, his lungs and gently sent him to sleep. Outside, they licked at the scarecrows feet, lapping hotly at the wooden beam that had supported him until it broke, charred wood splintering where it stood.
The people of the village slept in their beds, unknowing of the black smoke they could have seen from their windows. However, their unwavering belief in the scarecrow manifested itself in his consciousness. He stood, taking a moment to adjust to the new sensation of being alive. He stretched out his long fingers, black claws tearing through the fingers of brown gloves, and looked around slowly, the hot fire withdrawing from him in fear. Big black crows flew up from the farm, barely escaping the dangerous fire, and landed on his arms and head, where it was safer. The golden embers reflected in their eyes as they did the scarecrows, so he decided to let them stay. Let him be their beacon of safety. They would serve a purpose later.
Huge burning flames eventually gave way to black smoke, eventually gave way to sunny blue skies that morning. When the villagers awoke they saw the burnt out husk of the farm in the distance, small black clouds dancing lazily from the skeleton of Mr. Willis' house. They ran down, all wanting to see what had happened.
When they arrived, the site that greeted them shocked them. The ground was burnt black and flat, the dirt course. The barley was completely gone, leaving only the unholy ground in its wake. The house had been burnt down to nothing but a frame, charred wood barely standing. the only things that remained of the farm was the scarecrow, who now stood without a post, eyes golden and glowing like specs of fire where he had before been lifeless, and a single, greying marlboro cigarette, a weak arms throw distance from the remains of the house.
by sewer connoisseur » Sat Mar 04, 2017 10:13 pm
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 0 guests
