Fey

Hello, My name is Fey!

I use she/they pronouns, am an arctic fox Cambikin, snowy hare otherheart and plural! I like art, music, indie animation, and being weird :)

After the events of Secret Life, Scar finds himself completely and utterly alone. After a certain point, he couldn’t take it anymore. He tried to end it, hoping that maybe death would take him out of this place and bring him back to his friends. He grabbed his sword, closed his eyes, and—

…woke up in his bed. No fade to red, no voice in his head telling him how he died, nothing. Except…

sand? Yes, thats what it was. Faint, fleeting, but nevertheless, he saw sand…that ticked him off. That really ticked him off. All this time, all the blood he’d shed and people he’d betrayed, and he got nothing but a blank scroll and sand. Whatever. This didn’t change anything. He would just try a new method. Maybe it didn’t work because he did the slaying, maybe he just had to find something else to kill him. So Scar stepped outside, looking for a zombie, or skeleton, or phantom, or something so he could get out of here. It shouldn’t have been difficult, really. Without anyone to remind him, he didn’t bother lighting up the area. And there, just over the hill, was his exit: a zombie. He walked over, desperation fueling his movement despite days of starvation and…The zombie didn’t attack him. Actually the zombie didn’t even seem to notice him. He punched it, hoping for some response, but nope. The zombie just stayed, looking past him. He turned around, wondering just what exactly could be so important right now that the zombie didn’t bother attacking him. He didn’t see anything, really. Just some other mobs, his now-decaying sunflower field, and the somewhat lit up entrance of Trader Scar’s. Although, there was something off about it. He squinted, trying to figure out why the building looked so strange. He walked over, completely forgetting about the Zombie, and found what he was looking for. Sort of. Well, he found something, at least. There, on his doorstep, was a patch of poppies growing through the floorboards. He opened the door, trying to see what possibly could have caused this. Surprisingly, the poppies were not in fact just one patch, but rather, they seemed to be one continuous trail. Strange… He followed the path, stumbling through hallways he didn’t remember building, breath growing shorter and more frantic until, there: In his bedroom, he looked as the mysterious trail of poppies had clustered into one large mass that almost filled the room. But, despite the onslaught of red, he could see, in the center, as if it was being presented to him…

…his sword.