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The Sheriff, they say, had been cursed.
Upon first glance, you wouldn’t notice anything was wrong with the jovial Sheriff that watched over Tumble Town with his deputy. He spent his mornings at the gunpowder farm to inspect it and make sure everything was still going well. His afternoons consisted of staking out in the saloon with a drink in his hand, ready to jump into action should someone disrespect him, Tumble Town, or the Law. In the evening, he was at home and spent time with his deputies, enjoying the life they've built up in their usually quiet town.
Mining operations were going well. Every day, gold and terracotta was pulled from the landscape around them and the town thrived on their gunpowder export. Despite one or two run-ins with the not-so-local menace people known as the god of Stratos, this peaceful burgeoning town was doing quite well and their Sheriff was satisfied.
The peace did not last. At least, not for the prideful and strict Sheriff who always claimed the moral high ground. The location of the diamonds he'd dug up during a solo mission had drawn the attention of the archaeologist. The Sheriff returned a little jaded, a little unsure of himself. The people of Tumble Town had never seen him shaken like that. He reassured them nothing was wrong, all was fine. The next morning, he continued to walk around as though nothing had happened, his usually cheerful self again. The people brushed off any concerns - with such a wide grin plastered on his face, nothing could be wrong.
Three days later, something had gone wrong at the gunpowder farm. An irresponsible open flame, an opened keg standing out in the hot mesa sun for too long… whatever the case, an explosion rocked the area and workers had to drag The Sheriff's unconscious body from the debris, missing one arm. They managed to make him rest for two weeks before he appeared on the streets of Tumble Town again, unwilling to rest any longer. He had a job to do. At first with one sleeve tucked away nicely, then with a prosthetic arm, made with the help, wood, and magic from Sanctuary - a gift that solidified their alliance.
He didn't want to make too big of a deal out of it. Anyone could lose a limb, really. He was grateful it had been him who suffered this loss instead of one of his townsfolk. Through sheer willpower, he convinced everyone that he was fine - including himself. The Sheriff did smile a lot less after that incident.
His general presence and demeanor with his new arm attracted the attention of the god of Stratos again. Along with dubious pranks and generally being an asshole and disrespecting the Law, he added another painful jab to his repertoire: that The Sheriff looked like a toy. See, with the one wooden arm, he's already well on his way of transforming into a toy. Did you know the second favorite toy of the children living below Stratos is a wooden sheriff (the favorite being a plush of the god himself)? It was too perfect not to make that comparison. The Sheriff had gritted his teeth and loudly proclaimed that he was not a toy. The god merely laughed at him and flew away.
This comparison sent ripples through the international community. Though Sanctuary was still a staunch ally, the news started to spread throughout the world. Countries, leaders, individuals coming to Tumble Town to trade for gunpowder would refer to The Sheriff as a toy in one way or another. Some did it because everyone around them did it, some because they actually thought it was funny, and some because they started to believe it was true.
Every time one of these traders would come by, The Sheriff had to bite his tongue and respectfully disagree. Whenever it was one of the rulers who requested gunpowder and referred to him being a toy, he could go off and yell, knowing that his friends would forgive him. His reputation, he realized, was fractured enough that him losing his patience over their disrespect for the Law wasn’t going to change their relationship. For example, the Goblin tried to be polite, but The Sheriff could almost hear the snort in his voice and always brought it up in a roundabout way. No matter how much the Goblin was told it was disrespectful and agreed that it was, they both knew he’d bring it up next time anyway.
This was not the only sleight toward The Sheriff, though it was the one most noticeable. The Nether portal The Sheriff had wanted to use to go ahead and start a mining operation in another dimension, the Goblin was bothering him. One minute, the Nether portal was full and complete - the next, it was broken, then fully repaired again, then broken down even more. All the while, a low horn sound rang through the air. Nobody who came around, nobody The Sheriff accused of sabotage knew what was going on and all seemed innocent upon first inspection. Something - someone - was messing with him to prevent him from going into the Nether. Once he had done his business and wanted to return home, the whole portal was encased in obsidian, trapping him within the swirling portal until he broke it.
Closer to home, loud noises kept him and the townsfolk awake. Strange sounds, coming from underground, not related to any of the usual mob sounds one can expect in the middle of the night in the mesa. Day in, day out, the Sheriff looked and searched, but could find nothing that made such noise. He attempted to dissuade the townsfolk from thinking their beautiful town was haunted. There are no ghosts here, only stupid pranksters who disrespected the Law and The Sheriff would find them eventually if they weren’t so damn slippery, just you wait.
The following days, the townsfolk would see him go through his day. Instead of enjoying the work, it seemed as if he was merely going through the motions, jumping at even the slightest noise that could be one of the presumed “ghosts”. He was desperate to tell his people he was not a toy, and even when the townsfolk agreed with him - that he wasn’t a toy - he merely nodded as though he did not believe them. Their Sheriff withered away before their eyes and they had no clue what the source of his misery was.
What none knew was that this was only the beginning of the end.
More inconveniences would pop up; the Sheriff would be disrespected in more ways. It would all pile up and drive The Sheriff insane. Unless he found out the source of his misfortune, he would be tormented until the end of his days or until he had been driven insane.
The Sheriff, they say, had been cursed. He never touched the diamonds he’d mined out. Those diamonds, they say, came from an old fossil deep underground, one the archaeologist had called him out for disturbing. Relics of the past had a chance to place a curse upon those who disturbed it, especially when a treasure such as this one was involved.
Though they had placed other diamonds in their place and encased the fossil, for safe preservation, that was not enough. They had not been the original diamonds, already cut and ready for use. Without those original diamonds, the curse placed upon the Sheriff would not be lifted. Though never directly harmful, The Sheriff would never know a day of peace in his life again.
Such was the nature of this curse.