Giving Thanks-Harvest

It had been a bitter autumn storm that had knocked our fishing boat off course. My friends and I cursed the storm but welcomed the small port we spotted in the morning when the clouds cleared. We should have known better. Nothing should be trusted this close to the Deathwrack Islands. We should have headed home, but the boat needed repairs, and the little rural town had reminded us of home.
We were welcomed with friendly faces and hospitality almost as soon as we set foot on the docks. The townsfolk were in the midst of a local harvest festival, and, just like back home, everything was cast in warm colors and comfortable autumn flavors and smells. They offered us sweet honey bread, roasted drumsticks, and tankards of rich dark brew out of hand. This lovely little town was in high spirits and happy to share their harvest bounty. Looking back, I feel less like a guest and more like a hog being fattened up.
We stayed longer than we had intended, longer than we should have. It was the night before the full moon when they poisoned us. It was at a big feast in the center of town, their priests made a big deal about the bounty of the harvest, the spirits blessing their crops, and the gifts they had received. Nothing strange, just another village giving thanks and hoping for a short winter. So we ate, drank, sang, and danced with them. That was until the world blurred and spun around me, I stumbled, and there was nothing but darkness.
We awoke in what I can only describe as a grain maze, a farmers' field with long tall grains left cut in the shape of a labyrinth. At first, we thought it was a joke. Back home, these mazes were for children to play in and for harvest games.
This joke soon proved to be a nightmare. Under that bright full moon, we saw them shamble through the fields, their lantern and torch lights flickering. They were men dressed like scarecrows, all in rough-spun second-hand cloths, heads covered in bag masks with garish faces painted on them. Sickles, knives, grain flails, and wood-cutting axes, among other tools, were gripped in their hands with murderous intent.
Fear gripped us all to a man, and Holsen bolted into the maze's grain walls, only to scream in agony seconds after the metallic snap of a bear trap. Me, young Trevorson, and Immings understood immediately that this maze had a terrible price for cheating by pushing through the walls. We wanted to grab Holsen, but they were on him before we could, those scarecrow killers. So we ran, we ran into that maze, stalked by the scarecrow people.
We saw trip wires and glinting steel jawed traps hidden in the walls of grain, and it seemed like the scarecrows were waiting for us when we found a dead end. Immings was the first to fall, his cries haunting me as they beat and butchered him with sickles and grain flails. Poor young Trevorson was the next; he panicked and pulled his brass fishing knife and demanded a fight from the Scarecrow men. They obliged, and a big bastard with a wood-chopping axe emerged from the maze, silent save for his heavy breathing. He lumbered forward, and young Trevorson fought for all he was worth, but that big axe-wielding bastard shrugged off slashes from his brass knife like they were mosquito bites. I think they had quilted or padded armor under their scarecrow garb, or else some evil or madness allowed them to shake off pain like a dog does water.
I ran, gods forgive me, but I ran. I should have helped young Trevorson, but I just couldn't do it. I couldn't overcome my fear. All I could think of was escape, of getting away and sailing away from this island and this insanity. I ran and ran through the night as looming shadows of scarecrow men stalked me. I found my way free and ran to the boat like hell itself was on my heels. I sailed away as dawn cracked, and I found my way home by what mercy the gods had for me. I can't recall where that island was, and I'm not going looking for it again, but mark my words, evil calls that place home, and they reap a harvest of fear and death!
Grenwald Island
Nestled within New Torvaria, known as The Deathwrack Isles to outsiders, lies a region shrouded in whispers and rumors. Gothic cityscapes are said to be ruled by ghoulish unliving nobility, with the living serfs serving both as a workforce and cattle to their undead masters. These rumors hold an unsettling truth, yet each island within this archipelago harbors its distinct ruler and culture. One such island domain, situated on the eastern edge of the Deathwracks, is the peaceful and pastoral Island of Grenwald.
Grenwald's people are primarily fishermen and farmers, leading simple lives. Many question why this island has remained uninvaded and unconquered by external forces. However, most are unaware of what lurks in the dark, overgrown heart of Grenwald—the vast underground dungeon that houses the island's true master, a formidable Lich known only as "Old Jack of the Woods." Jack is amongst the most respected and feared undead lords in the Deathwrack Isles, even commanding the respect of the most powerful vampire nobility.
To the inhabitants of Grenwald, Jack is an enigmatic presence, with most knowing only that an evil spirit resides in the forbidding Old Jack's Forest, from which none return if they dare to venture. The people of Grenwald unwittingly serve as Jack's experiments, and their tranquil rural towns and villages are vital to his arcane machinations.
The Pumpkin Dance
Among Old Jack's numerous experiments and research projects, one of the most bizarre involves his study of faith and its interaction with ambient magic and the cosmos. He seeks to determine whether mortal belief can create a deity from nothing, and his creation is the Scarecrow God, conceived centuries ago to test this hypothesis. This cruel harvest deity demands blood in exchange for bountiful harvests and favorable weather. While Jack has allowed the locals to develop this faith, his subtle magic manipulates matters and fuels people's belief in their Scarecrow God.
One of the most chilling festivals arising from this faith is the Pumpkin Dance. On the first full moon of the harvest season, locals don scarecrow costumes and embark on a deadly hunt, targeting individuals trapped at the center of a perilous corn maze. Over the years, the festival has evolved to include deadly traps, and each year, outsiders are chosen as victims for the festival's grim ritual. Those who manage to escape the maze earn their freedom, as they are believed to amuse the Scarecrow God. In return for successful Pumpkin Dances, Old Jack rewards the village with good weather using his weather controling magic and resources that materialize in their storehouses. This is just a glimpse into the bizarre harvest cult of the Scarecrow God.
As for Old Jack, the Lich has taken notice of a burgeoning seed in the Astral plane. While embryonic, this seed grows stronger with each passing year as the faith and depravity of the Cult of the Scarecrow God intensify. Jack speculates that something may be born into the cosmos—a god, spirit, or fiend—through the depraved fervor of this faith that he created from nothing. This prospect amuses the Lich to no end.