THE BLACK STAKES RAINED DOWN—one, two, three.
It wasn’t Swishy who was skewered—and it wasn’t Trey either. At the last moment, Swishy drew all of the environment’s straw and leaves and twigs toward him and his friend.
Swishy didn’t think he or Trey could dodge—not as they hung in midair as helpless, unmoving targets—but Swishy’s sudden spell layered around the pair. The organic materials sped from their surfaces toward the boy’s body—piling, layering, weaving, and constricting. Everything cohered around Swishy and Trey, forming into a giant scarecrow. And it was this structure that tanked the skewer hits, protecting the boys.
The boys were nestled within the cockpit, so close to the walls that they couldn’t even twist or turn or shrug their shoulders. But they were together and secure and—for the moment—safe. Swishy’s spell combined two of his skills, [Boy Balloon] and [Straw Hut], which merged into a proper fortress. From inside, Swishy could tell that the structure was a full head and shoulders taller than the treetops, and every inch of it exuded a steaming aura of determination and resolve.
Swishy’s technique darkened the sky with its towering immensity, its scarecrow structure declaring its name: “STRAW GUARDIAN”.
Meanwhile, the wrathravens villainously cackled. Their spell had been triggered and would persist until its targets were obliterated. The beasts gleefully watched the skewers press deeper into the guardian. Their feast of destruction and gold-straw was upon them. All that remained on their list was to incapacitate Swishy himself. They ushered in every inch of skewering progress with elated laughter.
SKEWER, huh? The gloating trio said outside. You’ll regret that. Enjoy Hell!
The black stakes firmly jammed themselves into the straw monument, pressing and grinding, and Swishy winced at the incessant crack-crunch-cracks of damaged wheat. He lay encapsulated within the center of the structure’s chest, awaiting him and Trey’s doom.
But the [Straw Guardian] technique continued its activation, endlessly producing wheat. The more the stakes damaged it, the faster the guardian reconstructed. Wheat wrapped around the boys in vines, one layer becoming ten, and those ten layers tripling, and the growth persisting exponentially after that. Swishy sensed the skewers draw close, but his intelligent spell protected the boys. A bodyguard in nature, the construct’s straw vines drew Swishy and Trey into itself, dragging them deep-deep-deep inside.
The pair, once armored and inert, now became a moving target. Swishy was scared of the monstrosity he’d created. He didn’t know where his spell was taking him. The boy was baffled by his ability to create such a labyrinth, such an abyss. He couldn’t move his arms or legs or even turn his neck. Just like Trey in his scarecrow cast, Swishy now had acquired a cast that bound his body, imprisoning him.
The boy was desperate for movement, too, which was a new feeling for him.
Before his original summoning, he didn’t care for a body or the abilities of a body, but now he was attached. The claustrophobia was novel and horrifying. Without movement, he’d surely become a slave. That’s how he felt, anyhow, as the straw dragged him through its benevolent quicksand. Swishy helplessly watched as the wrathraven spikes tore through the conjured spell, penetrating the layers, searching for Swishy through every plunge, every turn, every fresh layer of [Straw Guardian] in its path.
What a magnificent spell, the wrathravens said.
“Thanks, now go away!”
Ours has its own levels too. We’re flexible hunters, fool.
“Then shut up and get on with it!”
The ULTIMATUM spikes dug and twisted and whirled around, tearing a giant circular hole into Swishy’s shield.
“You missed us! Losers!” Swishy goaded them but worried all the same. Three versus one was difficult enough when it was just snitchtalons. Wrathravens were another, more harrowing story.
We missed you for now. The birds confidently declared. This fight is only at its start. Soon you’ll run out of hiding places—soon we’ll demolish them all.
And on cue, the skewers spun as a mechanical drill, whirring in a familiar factory cacophony. Straw sprayed everywhere in a sickly, devastating rain. The guardian was impaled like a proper scarecrow should be, the immense stakes tearing through the back of the neck and down through the bottom of its torso. A spine, the skewers had constituted the guardian’s accursed spine, penetrating through the other side. The three [Ultimatum] skewers slowed their rotation, screwing into each other, fusing into a singular drill that broke the surface and anchored the guardian to the ground.
As soon as the [Straw Guardian] achieved its truest and most wretched form—an inert and helpless scarecrow—its reconstruction magic began to die. The hole inside didn’t close back up. The wheat debris remained crushed and lifeless, littering the trees and ground in grainy gore.
Luckily, the boys were moved far from the stake and were now hidden within the guardian’s head.
But the wrathravens circled the dead monument, surveying its one tapered leg, its torso, its arms, and finally its head. They sniffed around for Swishy’s terror. Most animals followed their noses—wrathravens followed one’s impending sense of dread-doom-demise.
Offer us your hopelessness, the trio casually said. You belong to us, slavecrow. Now bring us your body—and bring us more gold.
Swishy concentrated on reducing his pulse. He couldn’t allow the wrathravens to feast upon his dread. But the blackwheat feelings were tearing through him as the ultimatum skewers had done to his guardian. Swishy now existed as a microcosm of the fate that befell his most glorious and massive spell. Black inside and black outside, his efforts simply were not enough. But he remained encouraged by one thing and one thing alone.
Trey. Trey’s body rested against him, perfectly fine.
Thank goodness, thank you Guardian for hiding us well.
But the curses that formed the stakes were tenacious. Their ambition for hurt didn’t stop at the initial strike—the curses splintered into sentient shards and chased after them. What’s worse, they were after Trey specifically.
Give us the Clayhearth, the curses said. If we don’t have him, the wrathravens will drain us. Give him to us! Do it for your fellow dark-dwellers! One boy can’t be worth the suffering of the rest of us! Don’t forget us, scarecrow…Don’t do this to us!
They hissed and screeched in wrathraven cadence, needling through the haystack body, searching for a human body to puncture. The sharpened curses possessed a mantra of their own. Take his friend, then take Swishy’s heart! The wrathravens and the many souls they possessed were formidable in their own right. They knew that to harm Swishy they had to dig deep. One couldn’t just superficially nick and carve Swishy—you had to carve out layers and layers of his body and mind, sabotaging the intricate network that made him a special being.
To kill his will, you had to sever its bonds—or skewer his best friend.
The stake shards tunneled through the straw guardian with piranha-like voracity. The bladed darkness was set on transforming the wheat into a sea of hurt. But Swishy was determined to protect Trey, to protect everybody from the scourge of predation. He refused to be planted; he rejected all collateral damage attached to him; he would heal the felled trees and the scarecrow-casted Trey and the curses held within his wing.
Swishy knew he had to pay the cost to boss the realm, and that anything of worth to him was paid for with heart.
He pressed his hand to the inner wall of his container and infused it with magic. He'd create as much straw as he needed to impede and halt the homing shrapnel. It was a giant balancing act, a grand strain upon his soul awareness as the cursed darts weaved and changed directions and appeared to travel all places at once.
[Straw Guardian] became laden with traps; it was chocked full of nails and shadowy caltrops. Through Swishy’s soulful radar, he made out the tragic shape of his giant spell—its slumped posture and skewered torso, its cursed nails protruding from its neck, its mostly detached head that threatened to slide off the body like melted cake.
The symbol of hope now exuded a deathly smoke—which was fine for the wrathravens. The wicked trinity breathed in the abominable aura and thickened their layers of muscles and feathers with raw doom.
Swishy wondered if he and Trey were doomed. He was a blackwheat boy with little heart left to spend. He drained his heart to impede the needling curses, fortifying the guardian layers from his own magical reserves. He fitfully awaited the outcome. The suspense sent shivers through his straw-bound soul. His spirit was frayed, torn, and damaged. He was positively chewed up, inside and out. But his will, his resolve, never wavered.
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Keep the Straw Guardian strong. Protect Trey, protect me, protect the Swishlings…even protect Wingy.
Everyone knew that destiny had its designs. But nobody liked to watch destiny perform its actual work on their existence. Destiny was supposed to surprise people. You were supposed to sleep and then wake up to its result. But Swishy didn’t get that benefit. The wing curses didn’t get that benefit either. Only Trey-less Trey, who sleepily curled into the Straw Guardian’s fetal clutches, received the blessing of obliviousness.
REVEAL YOURSELF NOW! The wrathraven screams were followed by a tumult of tremors. They were attacking different parts of the guardian’s body, searching for the boys. Rather than wait for the curses to do their bidding, they ate through sections of the leg and arms, tearing away chunk after chunk after chunk of straw.
I have to do something. Fast…
Swishy forgot his fear of sinking into the claustrophobia-inducing guardian and deconstructed. The boy disintegrated his body into separate strands of straw, returning his wheat to the greater whole. He was merely gourd and heart now—or what remained of his heart. By controlling the straw within the Straw Guardian, he pushed his pumpkin head and heart through the structure as an ocean current, dragging Trey behind him. He dodged from side to side, avoiding the beak smashes and tremendous bites.
The wrathraven trio tore the decoy apart as they searched for Swishy’s heart. They sensed his little seed of a heart, a golden raisin zipping through the weaves, dodging the pecks and bites and massive inhales. And they’d gotten close—but not close enough. Swishy always dodged, always forged straw shields as needed, and successfully tunneled his head and heart and Trey-less Trey to the guardian’s peak.
When Swishy’s gourd reached the guardian’s lolling head, he reconstructed his body, seeming to phase through the surface as a whole boy once more. Pillars of straw remade him piece by piece, lifting the pumpkin to its proper height, then creating the body, attaching the wing, and closing around his tiny, tiny heart.
Trey, however, was kept inside the structure, hidden away behind one of the eyes.
The wrathravens glared, annoyed at their slippery prey. There were tons of gold-straw for them to collect but the presence of Swishy’s heart stole their attention. An infinite harvest stood before them, a resolved and stubborn one.
Swishy needed help. He couldn't do this alone. He'd held out as long as he could, but he wanted to find Trey’s soul. Fighting alone was not only impractical, but it also felt more pointless than anything he'd ever done. The boy had suffered in isolation for far too long. It triggered him to struggle alone. Being alone was fine. Strife, however, required a bit of heart-sustaining company. He missed his friend, his brother, his strength.
He lowered into a squat—then burst upward and flapped in a [Wing Jump]. “Trey! Show yourself! Come fight with me! Come so we can live!”
Live? The wrathraven’s repeated. Their red eyes lit up in mocking joy. The concept of living was out of the question, a foreign and disgusting idea to their hunter’s pride. You’re both already dead. You’re already food. Give it up, slavecrow. Come to the ground and make peace—make gold.
The wrathravens flew up with Swishy—actual flight, controlled and fast—zooming toward the boy.
Before the wrathravens could take him, Swishy spread his arms outward and closed his eyes, spreading a thin dome of soul-infused aura over the realm.
Swishy’s mind produced his ever-reliable overhead soul map. Trey was out there somewhere—he had to be. The boy skimmed past all the various plumage war survivors, the human-bodied stragglers who’d clawed their way to the darkness in hopes of an altar-given prize. The several flocks of beaten-down snitchtalons were of no interest to him either. The boy diligently searched for the newborn scarecrows, taking a tally, wanting his protégés to be okay. Swishy found them here and there, tiny souls, child-like ones. Several…more than several…his entire fan club of Swishlings. He focused on their location, wanting to feel them, to hear them, to confirm their wellness. What he found were young souls that were jagged around the edges, eaten by fear. Their bodies, their homes, their parents—all gone. The Curseworks was their only choice. And Swishy considered the marked difference between him who’d originally been a bird, and the human children turned scarecrow: kids were afraid of the dark. And the darkness was everywhere. The darkness was now the Swishlings’ world.
He could sense their hierarchy, a simple one. One leader, the girl with the purple bow, and a legion of closely clinging, whimpering swishlings. But they were here. They’d survived—which made Swishy proud, scared, and terrified all at once. The kids were on their own, just like Swishy had been. The scarecrow shuddered at the dark futures that careened through his mind.
Trey…where’s his soul?
Pressure. It’d returned in full force. Everything came down to Swishy’s success—he’d taken it all upon himself. When did he get so responsible? He didn’t know and that anxiety weighed on him almost the same as the darkness.
The wrathravens were upon Swishy, laughing in his face. You're wondering about your friend's soul, aren't you? He's out there somewhere—which means he's ours too. Everything—everybody—is ours.
The boy was saddened, then, because nothing he gave, nothing anyone could think to possess, was ever enough. Without me, what would become of this land? What would become of Trey? Even if I made a brand-new world, they’d drain it all within seconds…it’s dying already...
Snap!
Swishy was snatched from the air by a wrathraven. He found himself clamped within the giant bird’s beak. He could feel its throat muscles pulsing and contracting, an attempt to swallow the scarecrow. The fear, the terror. He didn’t know if he’d recover from being eaten. He didn’t need that kind of darkness. He didn’t know what kind of portal existed inside a true predator. Swishy could only think of the terror the snitchtalons experienced when confronted by his gourd, the blue soul inside razing their physical forms—and their spirits too.
With every chew, every gulp, Swishy was drawn closer to the back of the wrathraven’s throat.
This isn’t what was promised! You taste horrible. GOLD, I DEMAND GOLD!
Swishy had no concept of his flavor but believed the wrathraven. The luminous feelings darkened into a startling network of blackwheat. His arms, his legs, his ribcage—he was purely filled with dread. The remains of gold-straw encased his heart as the ashen wheat crawled around that cage, threatening infiltration.
But the wrathraven kept gulping. Swishy couldn’t resist and was sucked into the throat. He peered out through the wrathraven’s mouth, praying for intermittent glimpses of the outside as the beast gnashed and chewed. A defensive technique, that’s what he needed. No straw huts or shields would serve him now.
“Take this, you stupid bird!” Quills. He took the inner blackwheat and ejected them as quills over his skin. Swishy turned himself into a straw porcupine, wriggling and twisting, tearing at the wrathraven’s throat. Surprisingly, the wrathraven itself didn’t seize in pain—but the curses did.
Ouch! I didn’t do anything! Fight the bird! Don’t fight us! Pain, all we’re for is pain! Swishy, why must you hate us so?
But Swishy turned and turned, digging into the muscular tunnel that entrapped him. And the more he injured the curses, the thinner the throat darkness became. The wrathraven’s throat deconstructed into a fog of fleeing curses, allowing Swishy to fall and fall, landing on [Straw Guardian]'s head with the harshest thud. Swishy realized that he was missing most of his legs—he’d been swallowed, after all. He placed his hands upon his chewed nubs and coaxed out brand-new legs, a mix of normal straw and blackwheat. His heart contracted and contracted—but Swishy didn’t do the math. He was afraid to know the cost; he just knew that what remained inside could barely be called a seed.
The boy stared up at the sky as the other two wrathravens descended upon him—while the injured hung back, unbothered and throatless, its head simply floating upon its six-winged body.
Swishy deconstructed his straw and reintegrated into the maze of the guardian, the two wrathravens immediately eating through the area he'd phased into.
He couldn’t brush aside the growing abyss inside. He nurtured the remains of his heart, its weak pulse. His darkness swirled around the heart, a core that hung by a thin strand of straw, blowing like helplessly like the crops of Ruby’s childhood Stormcellar.
The decay, the fall, the isolation, the hopelessness. Swishy and his weakened heart were all these things.
But he'd buy time. He couldn't find Trey during his last jump but knew he was out there. He had to have faith. He had to stay determined. He'd learned a plethora of encouraging words that didn't apply to his current plight, but he needed those words, he needed that magic. Otherwise, GAME OVER wouldn't be the end result. The consequences were far outside of Swishy now, an incalculable ravaging of Straw City and beyond.
Swishy swam his head and heart within the guardian and arrived at the cage he'd left Trey's body within. After rejoining Trey, wrapping them all in the same straw vines, Swishy guided them all through the remains of the guardian—which was now missing its left arm, its right ribs, its entire tapered leg, and half of its head. The wrathravens ate through everything, rapturous and evil.
This is what we call a meal! The wrathravens grandly proclaimed. What’s so bad about becoming our cook? Slavecrow was such a harsh thing to say. Chefcrow, is that better?
Laughter and munching, laughter and munching, and the steady whittling down of [Straw Guardian]. The skewered structure began to resemble a decimated chicken bone. Off-balance and destroyed, it leaned to the side, threatening to topple at any moment.
Swishy zoomed within the remains of the straw, struggling to find safe zones for him and Trey. The lefts and rights and ups and downs were becoming limited. The pair were becoming cornered, stuck within the chewed remnants of the stomach. The wrathraven trio now circled this remaining area, sensing the boy’s heart. Even the third bird had recovered—its head still detached—yet somehow in orbit of its body.
Once we have your friend, all you’ll have is us. Isn’t that great? Let the human go. Be with us birds as nature intended.
Hearing those words, Swishy wrapped an extra layer of straw around him and Trey—but only one layer, the reserves of the guardian now sparse and depleted.
Pain, nothing but pain—pain that brought forth a new intent within Swishy. The hurt, the heartlessness had swirled inside. With his heart spent, the inner abyss grew strong. But a nub of heart remained. It was a seed inside, one that could be replenished and rebuilt. He only needed to win; he needed to survive these moments of terror and imminent loss.
He embraced the pain, the skewers, the needles inside—because these were the ingredients he was given. If the wrathravens could use negativity, then he would to. Nobody knew the type of pain he went through, the chasms that activated whenever he doubted a local’s kindness or rebuffed a curse’s advances. An oft-killed and replenishing heart had its woes, none that anyone could relate to.
Swishy lay within the impaled guardian, and his brightness waned from golden to orange, and orange to brown, and brown into the ashen slate of dead kindling decay.
A sudden surge of blackwheat populated his chest. He reached inside his body and firmly squeezed his too-minuscule, too-drained heart.
But the wrathravens would know—boy, would they know.
The TRAUMA flared inside, an intent from which flowed other smaller components—spite, sorrow, sadness, injury—which then fused to create a cursed magic with minimal differences from Ruby’s Biblical cards: V-o-O-d-o-O-o-o-o. Swishy didn’t know was voodoo was—but he knew that at this moment it felt like justice. His gourd emerged from the guardian’s torso—which drew the wrathravens’ sudden attention.
Swishy opened his mouth, and the letter v drifted out.