Name: Harmon Sachs
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Harmon appears, at a glance, to be a man of average height and build. He dresses in attire that is somewhat unseasonable for the climate. His heavy coat, once navy blue and now something closer to the color of mud, hangs around his knees, with a hem and sleeves that have become worn and tattered by the elements. Elbow length leather gloves recede into the baggy, torn sleeves. Dark trousers cover his legs underneath, swallowed by heavy riding boots all the way up to the knee. Over his normal attire he is never seen outside without a midnight black shawl, scuffed and full of patched over bullet holes. It covers his head like a hood, and conceals the shape of his body like a poncho. A patterned scarf is wrapped underneath, a facewrap the same as any trail hand would use to keep the dust out of his nose. In Harmon's case, however, it covers a sickly colored skin of burlap. The shadows conceal the stitches he's unfortunate enough to call eyes. The constant winter-wear concealing his body is there to hide the occasional protrusion of straw, which, together with a moderate skeleton of of wood, holds up the scarecrow's structure. Owing to his nonstandard construction, Harmon is lighter than a man. Not quite enough to take flight in a stiff breeze, but enough to make inclement weather a matter of reasonable fear.
History:
Harmon would say he came from the dirt, but the slightly less convenient truth is that he was the last son born to a sweet mom and pop who raised cattle in Kansas. He grew up with his brothers, learning to tend the family land and live an honest life. He had a mostly normal youth in that regard, the Sachs family never had much of a reason to leave their land besides to take cattle to station. The only strife they knew was the pressure of other ranches, and the railroad companies themselves looking to capitalize on the cattle boom in the way a small, sleepy family had no desire to. When Harmon's father finally passed, the offers came rolling in. As the youngest boy he had little to inherit, his own parcel of land fetching a pretty nickel shortly before the rest of the family folded on the old business. Out of necessity more than any particular grudge, the Sachs boys split from one another, off into the wide world.
The money didn't last. Harmon frittered his savings away as he traveled west, working chump jobs for chump change as the land grew ever more inhospitable. The promise of the Black Hills Gold Rush never tempted him... but the luster of gold sure did. He was a young man when he robbed his first train, joining a band of railway workers in seizing a shipment of raw gold dust headed to the coffers of some bank that didn't need it like they did. He'd turned into a bandit before he'd even thought about it, but fortunately for him he was a hair better at it than the rest of his co-workers. One by one the lampooned dust burglars of the Dakota Territory were brought to justice. The newspapers and the lawmen had their laughs about the fellows who decided to throw it all away for scraps that, split between them all, barely topped their month's wage. Harmon and a handful of others managed to disappear with their cuts. He didn't keep ties, just kept his head down and headed west.
He drifted from band to band, performing minor heists just to get by and only ever running with those who weren't possessed of suicidal ambition, as he calls it. As a thief of necessity, he had no desire to break the biggest bank or smear the name of the greatest bounty hunters. It was then that he first crossed paths with a man by the name of Virgil Cooper. Between gigs, wandering the desert together to set up home somewhere else... the two would-be bandits stumbled upon the chance of a lifetime. A broken down train, its engine blown and irreparable, sitting helpless on the tracks. As if their catch was not miraculous enough most of the crew had simply left the engine behind, to embark on the few-day walk into the nearest town. The conductor was eager to wave them in, to implore them to pass his plight on to the nearest station. He was less enthusiastic with a pistol in his face, but a cooperative sport nonetheless. The duo left with more bullion than they could bear across the heated desert, and with the law soon to be on their heels they hatched an ingenious plan, to bury their loot, disappear, and return once the chase had been given up. They dismounted, and outside the town of Sully, New Mexico, they dug deep and greedily to hide away their plunder.
Luck was not on their side. As the two brushed past bits of cloth wrapping and fragments of ancient, degraded bone, a voice came to them. The shouts of an angry Apache medicine man. Their shovels sullied the graves of twelve score Apache warriors, committed to the holy mound they sought to conceal their crimes in. Before guns could be drawn, the man cast upon them in a language that neither knew but both would come to understand.
"For violating this land I sentence you to safeguard it forevermore."
Skin turned to straw and burlap. Spokes held them fast to the dirt. Eyes split down to stitches in their new, woven skin. Days burned, nights chilled, birds roosted disrespectfully in their new hats.
But they had other plans.
Personality:
Seemingly aloof and calculating, Harmon is a slow talker who never seems to be in a hurry until it counts. He understands the importance of demeanor, whether it was keeping a heifer calm or sweet talking the cab runner into handing over the keys, he projects an easygoing calmness that never quite seems to match with the hawkish eyes and swift judgment underneath. Harmon's no bad man, he never turned his back on his family or took a life without remorse... but he is instead a man who has been accosted by transience all his life. Family, comrades, fortune, all came and went and left behind someone who isn't so much incapable of connection as he is unafraid of loss. He's a harsh realist, and a plain talker. His words are cut and dry, but they don't usually cut the feelings of others without intent.
Race: White (Scarecrow)
Weapon of choice: Harmon carries a Model 1865 Spencer Carbine as well as a rare LeMat revolver, one of the last to see production and chambered in .44 caliber cartridge. The pinfire revolver, intended for Confederate hands and filtered into hands of western bandits by those who refused to surrender, features a 20 gauge shotgun barrel. For close encounters.
Powers: As an animate scarecrow, he is capable of limited self repair by sewing ruined limbs back on or stuffing depleted body parts with fresh straw.
Strengths: Cool-headed, cautious, Sometimes downright lucky.
Weaknesses: When his luck breaks, he ends up cursed for life or worse. Physically frail due to straw construction, additionally vulnerable to fire. As a person, Harmon is a man of weak commitment. Not through any conscious cowardice but rather an aversion to standing out, he tends to follow the path of least resistance without consideration for the future. Which is why his family land is a cattle path and he's a hopeless bandit forever cursed to protect some dirt.
