Introduction: Hi @almostshrimp ! This is my entry for your DMAC. I'm pretty excited because I've never done a DMACE when the host allowed lore! I have a whole story cooked up >:) If you decide to keep this guy, do you mind if I occasionally make art of him? I would give the art to you and you would still own all of it. He's just fun to draw! Anyway, on to the design notes. »»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»» Design Notes: » plague doctor mask with clown paint » clown neck frills » 2 little flowers that shoot water - classic joke! » winged cane » clown shoes but plague doctor style » straps with silver buckes » twisted, unnatural joints » ashy gray skin » clowny balloons :0 » basically a mix of clown stuff and plague doctor stuff »»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»» Lore (in story form): The young man sighed mournfully as he pushed a wheelbarrow of corpses through the woods. More people he had failed to cure. Was there even a cure for this insidious thing? It seemed to float about wherever he went, heavy in the stifling London air. He was a doctor, yet he was helpless in the face of this terrible Black Death. He paused, remembering Mother and Father. They had fought hard, but the rot had consumed even them. He tried to recall them with shining faces and bright grins, but his mind was haunted with the image of their hollow-eyed stares. They had died six years ago, when the plague had first swept Europe. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He was tempted to let them fall. No one would see, for his face was concealed by his crow mask. The sickeningly sweet scent of herbs wafted around his face, stuffed into the hollow beak to drive back the plague. He shook his head. There was no time for tears in a crisis. Squaring his shoulders, he ventured deeper into the woods with his burden of bodies. He would dispose of them outside of the city, to prevent the disease from spreading. When he thought that he had gone far enough, he emptied his wheelbarrow. The dead tumbled to the ground to rest among the twisted roots of the forest. This seemed to the man such an unceremonious ending. No funeral, no burial, just roots to claim the people as their own. He turned to trek back home. There was nothing for it - this was a necessity. As he neared the end of the woods, he noticed a crow perched on a branch. It preened its feathers and shrieked at the sky. Its antics brought a small, sad smile to his lips. It turned to stare at him, and he chuckled to himself. "You dare to mock me, human?" cried the crow. The young doctor jumped, startled. "Thou might speak in human tongue?!?" "Hah! We crows are far more intelligent than you believe!" cawed the crow in a harsh voice. "Now tell, me, what is the purpose of this garb? You insult our kind with such mimicry." "My mask...?" "You parade about in that headware and debase crows as a species! You wish to be a crow? You shall be as such, for eternity!" screeched the bird in righteous indignation. "No, 'tis for the plague-" the man was silenced as a gut-wrenching feeling fell upon him and an ache settled into his bones. When it passed, he gazed upon himself in horror. His skin was ashy gray, and his hands ended in smooth, sharp claws. More alarmingly, his joints were warped and bent unnaturally. He tugged on his mask, but it would not come off, and he began to panic. "Witchcraft! I hath been cursed! What witchcraft is this?" he wailed in a creaky, hoarse voice. He spoke as a crow might. "Crow, what evil must I have done to thee to deserve this?" The crow was gone. The young man was left alone at the edge of the woods. He began to run back to the city as best he could on his deformed legs. When he entered the great city of London, he beseeched the passersby for help. "I beg of thee, help me! Some terrible fate hath befallen me and I know not what to do!" "Back, creature! I shall never consort with demons!" "Horrid thing, begone from here!" Soon a crowd gathered to jeer and threaten the poor man (if he could still be referred to as such). He fled back to the woods in shame. He was no longer welcome in the city, but he returned on some nights to walk the streets. In the dark, it was harder to see his cursed form. He felt a strange craving for worms and seeds, so that was what ate. He lived a lonely life, in the woods by day and the shadowy streets by night. He watched the Black Death kill thousands more, still helpless to save them. He was in the woods when London burned, but he returned to walk amongst the ashes at night. The wounded and the dead littered the streets. He gathered and disposed of charred bodies, and gave medical assistance to those who were injured. They were often too delirious to be afraid of him, and would later believe that he had been nothing but a fever dream. One good thing about the fire was that it cleansed the city of disease. The Black Death was gone, and the survivors rebuilt. The man, now a crow-man, watched from afar. (cont.)
(cont.) He found that he never aged. Through the years, he forgot his own name and the names of his family. He never spoke anymore, and no one ever spoke his name. It was so easy to forget after one hundred years of silence. Another century passed. He struggled to recall his identity. He never felt strong emotion anymore - he was always calm and empty. The years slipped by like sand between his clawed fingers. He always looked for a place where he might belong or feel at home, and he never found one. He didn't mind anymore, though it would have been nice. He stood in the steets at night and heard news of a place called the "New World". People were going there by boat. He thought about leaving too, but no one would have him as a shipmate, and he felt a strange attachment to England anyway. Perhaps there was still a touch of sentimentality in him. In 1768, a man named Philip Astley opened something he liked to call a "circus" in London. The circus was a place where oddities were displayed, including people. The crow-man pondered that. Soon enough, the English countryside had several more traveling circuses. The crow-man supposed that it could not hurt anything to talk to one of the ringmasters. If he was accepted, he could live among other humans again. Perhaps he had missed that. "Good Sir, might I join this circus thou hast made?" he inquired. He found it difficult to speak the way they did these days. His native language had certainly changed over the four centuries since the plague. Fewer people said "hath". He disapproved. "With a stange ailment such as yours, you'll be welcomed." So the crow-man was given the outfit of a clown. It was garish, he thought, and not very dignified. He didn't mind. Still, he kept some of his old plague doctor clothes. He was fond of his old hat. Years passed at the circus. He wandered the countryside with acrobats and the like. He learned not to grow too attached to any member, because they all left or died at some point. Ringmasters changed, faces changed, and still the crow-man remained. There were rumors about him. "They say he's been here for a hundred years." murmured the juggler to the lion-tamer. "When I was first recruited, I was told that he had been there as long as another tamer, by the lion-tamer who suceeded him!" whispered the man with awe. "They say he never takes off that helmet." added an acrobat. "Have you heard his strange voice?" replied the strongman. The rumors generated respect for the ancient crow-man. He was referred to as "Old Crow" by many. It was a title spoken with awe, and often a touch of affection. He had become a grandfatherly figure to everyone. He was distant, but kind. When anyone was injured, he became concerned and repeatedly offered medical assistance. This was gently declined, because no one wanted to be bled dry by leeches. It was a vaguely disturbing quirk of his to offer to bleed the injured. They wondered why he still believed in such an outdated practice. Despite, or maybe because of, his eccentricities, he was well-liked. He felt happy enough at the circus. He found that he enjoyed peanuts, and the lights were beautifully shiny. The others liked to listen to him sing, a warbling, chirping call, harsh yet gentle. He watched over the other circus members like fledgelings, and he was always a little sad to see them go. Such was the curse of immortality, he supposed. Despite the feeling of being stuck in time, he was at home at the circus. He grew to love it, and he never left. Some say that he still wanders the English countryside with the traveling circus to this day. »»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»» Notes: Crows apparently eat insects, fruits, seeds, and nuts. I read an article saying that they love peanuts. They are also known for liking shiny things. And gues what? They CAN talk! It's not like humans, more of a parrot-like behavior. It's more rare than with parrots though. Also, the dates of the Black Death were 1346-1353. I thought it would be fun to add a bit of actual history, but it's by no means accurate. I think they were still using leeches in the 1700s ugh. Anyway I hope you like it!!! It was partly inspired by your Keeper's Bees, but I don't think it's copying. Also I felt so silly trying to write medieval speech, I think it's probably very inaccurate too, but this is a fun magic crow story so historical accuracy doesnt matter! Thanks for reading all this, it was really fun and I hope you enjoyed it. :D »»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»
