Hail to the King
The Lord of Straw
The Master of Corn
The Heartland Guardian
His titles are many
His enemies are few
His vassals, countless
While hunched over, he stands twelve feet tall
His crown tied together by cornstalks
His face unseen beneath a burlap mask
His eyes glow a darkened orange
His limbs nothing but bones tied by twine and straw
Each stride he takes is the length of a grown man from head to toe
In his hand a scythe big enough to take down a horse but wielded like a dagger
He hums as he roams his fields, his domain
Should you be there without permission he will cut you down just like a ripened crop
Your body then will be used as host to one of his many vassals
For the Lost souls of the Heartland are always seeking to live again
Their offer their fealty in exchange to roam the earth
Their bodies covered in the crops of the land, they are known as the Corn-Walkers
The King puts them to work, cultivating the land and protecting it.
Those crops not used to expand their ever growing legions are traded to a nearby town
An uneasy truce, but one that must be maintained
The living shall stay off his land and the dead shan't walk in theirs
For those who "live" in the Heartland, life is good
Hail to the King
The Lord of Straw
The Master of Corn
The Heartland Guardian
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