Born of vine. Forged in fire. Fueled by rage and fermented cider. When the wind shifts and the crows flee, he awakens. Not for pie. Not for PSLs. For war.
He doesn’t fall with the leaves — he rises with the harvest. His blade is sharp. His squash is seasoned. His legend? Still carving. GOURD OF WAR. All hail the Pumpkin King.
