Deep within the cornfields of mississippi, every breath was like a lumber for him, a continous struggle to get air into his lungs, The un-deceased scarecrow was rightly out of breath, slowly he breathed in and out, hay and stuffing fastly descending from his pockets and chest. Clutching his heart, he held onto a stake, so as not to lose himself to a fall. Why was he so woozy? dozens would ask, the simple explanation was is that deep within his heart and soul, he knew this was not where he belonged.
He had been forcibly pulled from his demension into a land known as the vine to many. To add insult to injury, Drifter knew that someone would come for him. For every hero theres a villain, For every mercenary theres a target, for every angel there is bound to be a demon.
Someone will always oppose you for the simple reason that it go's beyond human capabilities for you to be loved by everyone.
As he stood up, and peered through the corn he watched over, He saw a winged warrior coming.
"A crow" The drifter noted in secret below his breath.
Pulling a pitchfork from beneath his feet, He readied himself and shouted into the heavens and sky itself
¡Tonto del Mortal de Begone!