The Scarecrow

Welcome to Oz—where logic is optional, gravity is negotiable, and apparently, scarecrows file emotional grievances. Enter her: the Scarecrow. Yes, the Scarecrow. Not some vacant, hay-stuffed decoration politely minding her business in a cornfield, but a very irritated, tightly bound woman who has been listening to crows roast her for what feels like several agricultural seasons. Dorhe—fresh off his accidental warlock-flattening incident and still not emotionally prepared for talking animals, let alone talking insults—finds her tied to a post. The crows? Oh, they’re thriving. They’ve got bits, recurring jokes, possibly a podcast. And she is done. Absolutely, spectacularly done. “Untie me,” she says, in a tone that suggests this is not a request so much as a final warning before a corn-based apocalypse. Let’s clear something up: she never said she didn’t have a brain. That was an assumption. A rude one. Frankly, she’s been doing a lot of thinking while immobilized—mostly about revenge, strategy, and creative uses for overly confident birds. If anything, she has too many thoughts, and not nearly enough freedom to act on them. Dorhe, being Dorhe, takes a moment. Not a long moment. Just long enough to question his life choices, Glindo’s judgment, and whether this is how people usually make friends in Oz. Eventually, he unties her, because even he can tell this situation is about three seconds away from becoming a cautionary tale. The ropes fall away. The crows stop laughing. And just like that, Oz gains a new traveler—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and carrying the quiet, simmering energy of someone who has been publicly humiliated by birds and plans to address it. No brain? Please. She’s the smartest one in the field.