As the cavernous mouth opened, Swishy envisioned himself inside its throat.
The wrathraven shot at Swishy with a headfirst glide. Swishy dove to the floor, ducking the gaping maw. His straw prickled from the forceful wind of the creature’s flight.
Swishy raised himself and turned to his opponent—who'd also boomeranged and shot after him again. Another successful dodge yet the attacks continued with incredible speed. The wrathraven fired itself to full throttle—then suddenly stopped. Then another giant burst—followed by a complete halt. The massive bird's gaseous torso was immune to the stressors of inertia, and its pliable muscles were the perfect vessel for strength.
In Swishy’s limited time on the planet Cearth, he understood enough about physics to know that the wrathraven’s agility was pure nonsense.
The creature soared faster and faster, gaining momentum. Swishy could only dodge and deflect with his rake. One beast but many attacks—Swishy felt as if he were fighting a snitchtalon flock.
He noticed the path of the wrathraven’s flight, tearing through the shadows—no, collecting them.
Every movement from the creature dragged the nearby shadows from their surfaces. The beak pecks dragged a sharpened spear of curses with it. The wing slaps ripped entities from the nearby trees and flung them as dark sickles.
Swishy barely sidestepped the unexpected projectiles. He suffered a graze to the arm, a slash through the shoulder—wounds he closed with ease by absorbing proximate wheat stalks.
The more numerous the attacks, the more bleached the clearing appeared. The wrathraven barreled through the thicket, stripping shadows from the trees. The ground and tree trunks and foliage appeared unnaturally bright, like an artificial sun. Yet the winged menace continuously found more blackness to lift from the clearing to reuse as blades.
During evasion, Swishy discovered a change in the shadow-scarred beast. The curses drawn into the wrathraven fueled a transformation. The fogginess about the bird's torso hardened into muscular sinews. Every tendon screamed—literally. Let us drive the bird! I don't want to be a feather! I want to be the head! The beleaguered scarecrow still found it in him to be annoyed.
The peeves…they’re back.
The peeves had indeed returned, flaunting their suffering. Their banshee shrieks reverberated through the woods. The wrathraven flexed its six wings once more and strongly flapped. A gale of shadows flowed after Swishy in multitudinous currents. Swishy stood his ground and swung at the dark energy with a golden rake arc of his own. But the hexed projectile split in two, live peeves steering the dark wave. As they followed Swishy, dodging his rake swings, the shadow blasts sobbed and whined and lamented their agonized captivity.
Don’t hurt us! Don’t we suffer enough? Give in! Please—die for us so we can rest.
The scarecrow remained firm in his resolve. He swung at the curses, hitting some, missing others, as they cried their incessant cries and appealed to his…humanity? The proper word sprouted within. Trey never taught him the spell but the learning scarecrow worked it out. The golden intent bloomed within him: CONSCIENCE.
A conscience, a conscience, Swishy had a conscience. He didn’t want to fight the curses and vice versa—so the curses claimed. Swishy raised his rake and fed it his soul. Gold-straw poured through the prongs and spread in luminous vines, chasing down the agile curses, lasso-ing them.
The curses became drowsy. They relaxed. Their lilting voices went from what-are-you-doing to hey-this-feels-good to tuck-me-in-pet-me-love-me-okay-night-night.
The wrathraven soared toward them with an open mouth—chomp!
"Wow," Swishy said, "Night-night indeed."
His quip was followed by vicious wing blasts. Dark wave after dark wave targeted Swish from every angle, splitting from its main beam to catch him off guard.
The boy wanted to unleash a Gold Hurricane but knew that was a waste of heart. There were unlimited shadows for the wrathraven to wield, after all. Efficiency and cardiac conservation, that's what Swishy aimed for. He swung several times as he pivoted on his back foot, defending his front and his back—but the cursed wing blasts persisted.
Swishy raised the rake in a defensive posture and concentrated. He pictured the useful form, something that’d cover him fully.
The boy swiftly swung, unleashing a golden wind around his body, 360 degrees of defense which tore through the curses. As soon as one wave of shadows was battered, another came—but Swishy repeated his cyclone over and over. An attack and shield all in one—with no heart cost at that. He'd done it.
“How you do like my Swish Cyclone?”
He glowered at his enemy during the brief break in the onslaught. The bird gave him a strange look, a surprisingly non-predatory one. A moment passed in which the danger seemed to abate. The wrathraven’s eyes were unusually glossy. Swishy made that expression himself when he ate his first glizzy. There was admiration—and not for the boy—but for the rake he held in his hand. Gold. The lustrous gold gleamed like a beacon.
The wrathraven stepped forward, hypnotized by the pulsating energy. Even Swishy admitted that his weapon was pretty, its prong tips emitting gold-rimmed bubbles of aura.
And then the wrathraven spoke. That gold...It’s mine…The beast blinked, shook its head, and the hunter inside reemerged. The wrathraven was less a gold fiend and more a murderer.
It lunged towards Swishy with haymaker wing strikes. Swishy bobbed and weaved from the attacks, easing into a flow. The swings, the rhythms, the timing—Swishy became one with the flowing movements and discovered an opportunity.
A massive swing—which Swishy ducked beneath. From that position, he planted his feet and sunk into a deep squat.
The bird's exposed core hung overhead like an apple ripe for snatching. Time slowed…Swishy blessed counterattack flourished in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t work out the silly saying from Trey's favorite fighting game—the karate men uttered a host of grunts and strangenesses. Soar-you-can?…Sure-you-can? Straw-ryu-ken?
He perceived the image of an uppercut, a strong fist tearing into the sky—but with a rake.
1…2…now!
Swishy launched himself into the air with a twisting rake thrust, piercing the amorphous fog of the wrathraven’s core. The rustles of his violent strike sounded out in his easily-pronounced attack name: “STRAW DRAGON”
The wrathraven hunched over the rake, weakening, leaning over its prongs. A dark fog streamed from every prong, the main body deflating by the second. Triumphant vibes streamed into Swishy. Victory, sweet victory—until the beasts’ eyes came alive. Those rolling red optics shimmered and jumped. The creature wriggled on the rake prongs, grinding against it, inviting deeper stabs. With every moment of depleted darkness, the beast gained a freakish rapture in equal measure. Joy...a bizarre and revolting joy. "Weirdo, give me my rake back!" Swishy tugged hard but the wrathraven clutched the handle with all 6 wings—and skewered himself deeper.
GOLD, yes! Hurt me in GOLD. May my insides drink its LUSTER. Yes, kill me crow-boy. Prong me to the HEAVENS!
The wrathraven was hurt, deeply and undeniably hurt; its eyes flickered towards death yet flared with rapture. Life loss and euphoric gains—such was the way of the gold-craving addict. When the bird's injuries became too severe, the creature siphoned the shadows and healed. The vacuumed curses fluttered and whined, but they were much too small to defy the bird's dominance.
Swishy also faced the hazards of being petite. He couldn't move; he couldn't reclaim his rake; he couldn't deny the wrathraven its masochistic indulgence.
Strangely, the boy had lost this round. He released the rake and ran, sprinting into the willows.
(...)
The wrathraven removed the rake from its body and stabbed itself again and again. The creature pronged its belly and wings; it scratched the sides of its face; it licked the prongs experimentally before biting down on the resplendent gold-wheat. Soft caws issued from the bird.
Cacaw...cacaw...
When the beast was done playing, it swallowed the rake whole. The vicious anatomy of the creature suctioned in the proximate curses, sealing its punctures with shrieking entities.
Swishy shrunk from the screeching helplessness.
The wrathraven spoke—real words, silky and sophisticated: "DARK HARVEST…you’ve heard of it haven’t you?"
The scarecrow's insides crawled, the blackwheat inside traversing his weaves like an ant colony. He didn't have an answer. Of course, he'd heard of Dark Harvest. The problem was what he'd seen with his soul sight. The curses were in the wrathraven's body, perpetually siphoned—and not just their bodies, but their knowledge and personalities too.
Like Swishy, the wrathraven instantly acquired language, information, and Straw City culture.
Evolution—horrible, horrible evolution.
Swishy sprinted—what else could he do? The boy found a deep thicket but he left a trail of darkness in his wake. Blackwheat proliferated within and those cursed feelings flowed into the air. The wrathraven glided after the dark aura, inhaling the vapors of Swishy's blackened plight. Nourished from the negativity, the creature enlarged. Hidden behind a tree, Swishy watched the bird's shadow elongate and widen.
Wow, what doesn't it eat?
Another batch of wing-blasted curses flowed towards him—he heard their whistling progress. The giant bird itself soared after its projectiles, too, ready to pounce once the curses located and trapped the boy.
He crouched against a tree and waited. Calm down, calm down...Swishy didn't want to produce any more blackwheat; he sought to extinguish his pessimistic trail. The boy had to get his mind right, to trick his body into accepting Ruby's darkness as home. He resolved to feel good about these circumstances. He could do it; he had to; he must.
"Are you ready to apologize?" Myst reappeared with crossed arms and a stern face.
"I'm sorry, yes, but I can give you a better apology later."
"You physical beings can't multi-task at all."
"I can't, I can't—sorry gotta go!" Swishy ran towards another tree as a spree of curses splattered against his current one. At his new cover, Myst teleported before him.
"I see you've updated your thinking of the darkness."
"I'm doing my best. I liked this before and I'll make myself like it again."
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Yes, be one with me.” Myst spread her arms to the sky—but Swishy’s soul-blues turned into a hive of bees. “Gosh, so mean.”
“Is Trey okay?” This time Swishy said it while running, a budding little multi-tasker. He side-stepped a chasing curse, skipped over one, and then slapped one with his hand.
“Will you pay me for that answer?” Myst, incorporeal as she was, had no worries. Only annoying leisure.
“I guess Trey is fine then," Swishy decided.
“I suppose. He’s ZLIDING after your silly Swishlings. He’s replacing you, you know.”
“You mean he’s doing me a favor, thank you Mysty. Now go away.”
“But Swishy, don’t you need my help?” Myst curiously eyed Swishy as he shoved the sole of his feet upon a tree trunk, testing the grip.
“I’m doing okay without it.”
“Okay isn’t the most reassuring thing I’ve ever heard. You know, a friend in need deserves a hand from Myst indeed. Have you ever heard of that one?”
“I wish I hadn’t.” Swishy climbed up the tree, his Timbs providing him a real monkey grip on the bark. The curses attacked, screaming at him to stop, but Swishy covered himself with straw shields.
Myst ascended the easy way—with flight—which made Swishy roll his eyes. “There's my favorite gesture, I love annoying you, you know that? You should really treat me better, though. I restored what little you had left in your heart. I paid it forward—that’s what the people like to say, right? I did you a favor as a friend. You can be my friend back.”
“You’re a scary friend.” An incoming curse slammed into Swishy's hand and he almost lost his grip.
“Aren’t those the best ones to have?”
“I…” Swishy gaped at the rising wrathraven. The bird flew above the treetops, its hovering presence evoking memories of the city's crashed zeppelin—RIP, rest in pieces. Those ruby-colored eyes found the scarecrow with little effort. Since the wrathraven's gold-straw healing and the siphoning of the boy’s stress, the beast evolved. The feathers were now stiff, armored. The neck grew longer and more flexible, almost giraffe-like. The bird experimentally shot its neck like a stretching projectile at Swishy's treetop. He jumped from the now-destroyed canopy to another. Mid-air worries came then. Will I make it? I messed up my jump. I'm going to fall and get eaten!
Swishy flapped his wing—Pwoosh! Pwoosh!—and gained minor air-time, a momentary boost. He swung his arms and reached for the closest branch...
He caught it—right as a curse barrage splattered around him. Swishy pulled himself upon the branch and jumped from treetop to treetop, using his wing for amplified distance.
The wrathraven flew alongside the boy's progress. It followed the audible rustles and falling leaves, shooting his rubbery neck at the suspected locations. The creature destroyed one treetop after the other, but Swishy jumped away off the strength of wing flutters and audacity.
After several cycles of tree jumps and beak shots, Swishy came upon a clear patch of land. The wrathraven blasted his face through Swishy's last treetop, and the boy leaped after, flapping his way to a soft landing.
Down...I can only go down. Wing, can't you do better? The dejected Swishy reached into the ground and drew up another rake, and a fifth of his heart vanished into the ether. The weapon was of normal wheat. He had no gold joy for himself but effectively stifled the blackwheat.
The wrathraven drifted above Swishy, waiting for dark feelings to rise and feed it.
Swishy trembled as he fought its own darkness.
Myst grinned, knowing that her time was coming.
(...)
Swishy stuffed his hand inside his chest. The curses were right—he’d grow the heart back. He’d find his way back to fullness and joy. But he first needed to navigate the dark. Would it be so bad to accept Myst as his guide? She couldn't be worse than Bristles—could she?
He watched her steady grin but he read her true lip-licking desire. Swishy’s time in the dark had given him a strong perception of his shadowy kin. They saw his truth, and he saw theirs.
Trey, I need help. Where are you? Are you okay? Make it back to me. Your new friend sucks.
He removed his hand from his chest and placed it back on the rake.
“Oh my, how confident," Myst mused.
“Confident? Oh, Swish-no. But I’m gonna fight.”
“Well then, fight you shall. Fight to your heart’s content…or reaping. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Either I win, or I’ll be dead.” Swishy stuck his tongue out and then dodged a sudden attack—the wrathraven shooting its monstrous neck at Swishy.
The wrathraven's patience had run out—there was no despair to collect—and it attacked with another series of beak shots. Swishy was tuned into its rhythm, its frequency. A dodge, a duck, a rake block, a swish cyclone defense—but the wrathraven switched up its tempo.
The neck launched and retracted, launched and retracted, snapping and bending like a whip.
The bird flew after Swishy, circling him with a barrage of pecks—fast ones, slow ones, and wing blasts of curses in between.
Swishy maintained his defenses, tuned into the frequency of the shadows. But he couldn’t lodge his offensive either. He avoided a cursed wind by diving behind a tree. He rested against the knotted bark and gathered his gold-straw energy. Rhythm, happiness, and fun—these were the ingredients for the boy’s sustained heart. He needed an attack so he calmed himself, gathering his reserves.
The wrathraven’s face crashed through the tree he rested upon, but Swishy ran towards another. The bird destroyed a series of trees, hoping to trap Swishy in the collateral chaos. After the first few felled trees, the wrathraven ceased its pecks in favor of chomps—extending its neck around the tree trunks and snapping its beak directly at Swishy.
The boy jumped backward, shocked, but he didn’t waver. He ran towards another tree, struggling to block his fears. The blackwheat crawled up his arms—but he thought about Trey, his growing wing, his swishlings. A surge of gold-straw choked off the blackwheat progress like a tourniquet.
He dodged and dodged, focusing, amassing the good vibes—and snuffing out the bad. Thankfully, the forest shielded him.
“Wow, you’re doing good,” Myst said—now appearing as a tiny fairy in the hollow of a felled tree. She sounded like she meant it, too, an odd pride that Swishy could hardly believe was her.
“I can fight. These stupid birds made me practice.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“And perfection makes gold.”
Inside, he bloomed. The gold flowed through him, cultivating love and laughter and brilliant straw weaves.
And the wrathraven noticed that, too, the physical beacon, the alluring shine. The bird slackened its progress, admiring, ogling, drooling. The monster then catapulted toward Swishy's brilliance, snapping its beak. Swishy noticed that its eyes were rapt. The glaze within the wrathraven’s eyes reminded Swishy of himself, of his indescribable compulsion to T-pose. For Swishy, his love was shadowclaws. For the wrathraven, the object of its desire was gold, pure gold. And Swishy’s heart couldn’t get more golden than that moment.
The scarecrow's heart, its entire body, projected the much-coveted gleam.
The beast upon Swishy and caged the boy within his six wings—it started eating immediately.
The wrathraven gnashed in victory while picking gold straw bits from its mouth. Both boy and beauty were consumed, empowering the beast’s aura.
But that wasn’t Swishy. An intent of shining letters circled the wrathraven's head, a disjointed jumble that read: GOLDEN BOY.
Swishy was behind the wrathraven, watching the foolish beast consume his decoy.
He remembered his tree-climbing technique and jumped upon the creature's back, digging his Timbs into the feathers and muscles. He climbed and climbed and climbed, scaling the bird's writhing torso—both the wrathraven's muscles and the wriggling of agonized, long-suffering peeves. Anguished facial expressions seeped through the musculature, calling for Swishy to help them. Save us, Die for us, Don’t let him drain us, Drain yourself—you’ll grow back anyway. Sacrifice, please! Good hearts are giving! Good hearts give themselves! They wished to use him in a thousand different ways. Swishy swallowed his disgust and dragged his Timbs over their peevish faces.
The enraged wrathraven jumped and twisted, screeched and screamed. All six wings violently flapped. "GET YOUR $18.74 ASS OFF OF ME!" '
Swishy spitefully clung, stomping and stomping. "Eat these size 7's!"
Yet the wrathraven's turbulent tantrum continued, its embarrassment all-consuming.
"YOU'RE A GOLD FARM—GET EATEN LIKE YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO!"
The scarecrow lost his footing but recovered, knowing his persistence insulted the predator.
Black vapors swirled in the air; an energy drawn directly from its collection of ghastly, skin-deep faces. Those faces, despite their smoky aspect, became gaunt and tight around their spectral bones.
ULTIMATUM, read the word.
The wrathraven turned its neck at a proper angle for eye-to-eye contact with Swishy. It spoke one question, the final aspect of the spell: Become dinner or reveal your greatest fear.
Swishy’s body became heavy with the cursed intent. He could feel his chest tighten from the choice, the dilemma. As he considered ‘dinner’ he felt his body slacken, submitting itself to the creature’s mouth. That wasn’t an option. Not at all. He prepared then to speak his greatest fear, to Swish-speak with all due clarity to break himself from the spell. But he didn’t know it or want to say it—which didn’t matter. Shadows read truth—which pulled itself from the boy into the air. The great fear which formulated inside of Swishy had projected to the outside in a clear, comic-book bubble dream:
A golden city in flames, melting down into a metallic goop. The kid-crows were in the mire, unable to navigate the sticky swamp. The first boy he’d saved fell and couldn’t get up. The scarecrow girl with the purple bow—dropped it and fell to sorrow. The snitchtalons flew around the chaos and celebrated, wearing an array of Clayhearth gold. Trey, caught within the grasp of snitchtalons, soared overhead.
Swishy wanted to save them all—but a stake through his body pinned him to the ground. The wrathraven led a procession of snitchtalons toward the scarecrow. They nibbled at Swishy's opened chest cavity and drew straw-chews from his heart. They harvested his arm and leg fibers for their bird nests. The others created day beds for them to lounge upon. Swishy, the staked and woeful boy, watched it all—exactly the way Straw City had intended.
As the wrathraven inched its face towards the scarecrow's heart, tauntingly clicking its beak, Swishy awakened from the dream.
"Ah yes," the wrathraven said. "The kids are snacks, the Clayborne is dinner, YOU are a harvest—and the gold is MINE…Honestly, what a predictable fear—and a stupid one. That’s already the reality. Everything I want—everything gold, every agony and darkness. Those are mine, always mine. But I suppose I don’t want you to accept reality. In your non-acceptance, there’s delicious, delicious dread. And in that dread, there’s power."
Swishy could feel the blackwheat vibes inside him, rising from him like smoke and strengthening the beast. The view was higher as his enemy grew and grew. But he couldn’t give up. Swishy had gotten hit by a spell—it’s a fight, it happens—but shook it off and responded. He jumped from the creature’s back and landed atop one of its wings. The boy bent his head down and immediately set about his work: eating.
He bit and swallowed and absorbed as many of its feathers as he could. The wrathraven flapped wildly, barrel-rolling, twisting, somersaulting—but Swishy held on. He’d eaten a quarter of a wing, then half a wing, before getting tossed off.
As Swishy fell to the ground he employed his favorite trick of soul: shooting out the soulful vines from his gourd and snatching up several more clumps of feathers—he ate as much as he could before falling.
Swishy landed with a thud, collapsing into an unintelligible pile. His soul scrambled to pull himself together again as the wrathraven descended. The boy reintegrated and dodged the dive-bomb. He instantly realized the clumsiness of the wrathraven's attack. He studied the bird...its flight was slightly staggered.
The half a wing I ate, I see...
Swishy flexed his wing, which increased in size yet again. He even moved it in a circle, rotating it in a shoulder roll fashion. He flapped it—and a little poof of darkness emitted from it.
I think I can actually use this…
The wrathraven swiped at Swishy with a twisting right hook, its trio of right-side producing a bladed wall. Swishy blocked it with the rake but was sent flying—yet landed on his feet and skidded to a stop. But the beast was suddenly in his face and launched a low left hook, aiming for the boy’s legs. Swishy jumped as high as he could, knees to his chest, his Timbs barely clearing the high hurdle of the bird’s three-winged swing. Swishy realized the trap as the wrathraven swung the momentum into a right hook. The scarecrow was mid-air, nowhere to dodge it seemed—but inspiration struck.
Froosh! Swishy flapped his wing as hard as possible, a dark current boosting him upwards and over that massive attack. The boy rose and rose, floating almost, staring at the top of his enemy’s head. Flight? Is this flight? No, not quite. He wouldn't go any higher. But the hang-time filled his heart, the golds inside bursting from seed to joyous cluster. The flight would come, this he knew, and he was content to accept the next best thing: a video game hi-jump.
Wing jump! Heck yeah!
As fast as his heart could supply the gold-straw, he siphoned it just as quickly, brandishing an ever-growing rake. The handle extended into a javelin. The several rake prongs joined their adjacent ones and formed three spear tips in total. He menaced the glaring wrathraven with his majestic floatation, a special attack forming in his head once more. The golds inside were tremendous and unlimited, his favorite game mechanic—the bar was filled and the attack choices were primed for Swish-signature destruction. Overdrive—no. Souldrive achieved!
He plunged towards the enemy, thrusting his weapon as his body proclaimed his next victorious moment of Swish-speak: GOLDEN SCARECROW RETURNS TO HELL.
The trident impaled the devilish bird through the clavicle and lengthened into the ground, its prongs reaching down-down-down into the underground like pernicious roots. The weapon clung to the crevices of Cearth, hooking onto nooks and crannies and impossibly firm wedges. Swishy couldn’t retrieve the weapon and his enemy couldn’t remove it. The wrathraven was maimed and captured, its shadowy torso releasing a dark smoke of whimpering curses, the body thinning and thinning, gradually—and satisfyingly—becoming nothing.
Even the ground fed off the souldrive-inspired energy, a crown of gold-straw sprouting in their vicinity.
“You were a horrible bird but you’re already a wonderful crop.” The boy swished, a smug victor smirking before his declining enemy. “Last words? Requests for your tombstone etching? Swish-god is listening.”
As the bird dissolved from the outer edges going inwards—its feet, its torso, its wings, its neck—a low groan slipped from its slightly ajar beak. The wrathraven’s appendages had fully dissolved, the golden trident cleaned of its opposition, and only a floating, vanishing head remained—yet that too was eaten by the ether, disintegrating into vapors. Only a sliver of both eyes remained, red optics which in their final moment became gold, a euphoria that Swishy recognized and feared. The wrathraven gasped its last word:
"More..."
The creepiness was too much for him. But Swishy shook the discomfort away. Obsession was the culture of Straw City and Swishy refused to be shaken by normal behavior.
The beach sands, the glimmering shells, the crash of the waves—he stood in a paradise, truly.
The boy lifted his arms, a "T" of the gods.
Remnant feathers pendulously arced around Swishy, coronating the fight’s victor.