#trudging through the bayou

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[contumacious-arcadia]

Check out this AMAZING art from Chapter 42 of What A Soul Can Accomplish by @paintedaster!!

Check out this AMAZING art from Chapter 42 of What A Soul Can Accomplish by @paintedaster!!

EXCERPT: It takes him nearly half an hour to find Alastor.  The bayou is massive .  Trudging through the thick underbrush, Lucifer couldn’t help the sense of wonder washing over him.  Alastor’s creation is beautiful , and as he moves deeper and deeper into the lush environment, he can’t help but think it somehow seems endless.  Like he has stepped into a whole different world.  He could have spent weeks just wandering around and seeing everything, touching everything, smelling everything- but today he was on a mission.  He had a stray Overlord to wrangle.

Finally, Lucifer feels the tell-tale static prickle along his aura begin to gradually intensify.  

He’s close.

His heart speeds up in his chest.  He’s suddenly shaky and uncoordinated, legs wobbling like a newborn fawn.  A nervous chuckle slips out of him at the thought.  

Stumbling through the treeline, he comes upon Alastor laying on his back next to an absolutely enchanting bubbling brook; arms up and crossed beneath his head, staring up at the faux-sunset.  The Overlord doesn’t acknowledge his presence, though there is no way he isn’t aware of the King.  

Lucifer waits.  Long minutes pass, but still, Alastor doesn’t move.

Shit.  I have to say something.

“Hey, Red.”

Silence.

“You’re upset with me.”

Silence.

Come on Luci, you can fix this.

Change tactics!

Laying down beside the Overlord, Lucifer stares up at the stars just beginning to peek through the fading light.  The sky is a mix of pinks, purples, oranges, and reds all swirling together around the distant horizon.  This.  This is true art.  Alastor… holy hell.  He hasn’t seen anything like this since Eden, and for a moment, everything around him fades and he is transfixed.

Amazing.  

I can not believe he created this.   

Actually, I can believe it.  He surprises me every single damn day.  Sometimes I honestly think he can do, well… anything .

[tinyfishtits]

Heat Wave

Micah Bell / Female Reader

Summary: A heat wave rolls through Rhodes and the reader decides to shave their head, much to Micahs surprise. Word Count: 2,222 Rating: Teen and Up ~ for foul language Author's Note: For all my bald and buzzed girlies out there, this fluffs for you! A pretty gn fic, though a more fem reader makes sense for the reaction their buzz gets.

★ Read on AO3 ★ ☆ Masterlist ☆

“I think I’m dying.” I whined as Micah finally emerged from the general store. He leaned against an adjacent pillar, slowly looking me over as he stuffed his change into his pocket. 

“You look it.” He said, so matter of factly I could have slapped him if the thought of moving wasn't so abhorrent. The smug bastard must have walked straight out of the pits of hell to be so wholly unbothered by the heat. 

“Go… Fuck yourself.” I didn’t have the energy to go off on him like I really wanted. He had dragged me around the bayou all morning on some bogus treasure hunt that led to nothing but us trotting around in the sun for hours. And then the second we got back to camp Dutch just had to insist that he and I make a run into town for supplies. I could throttle them both. 

“How can you even stand it?” I lifted a hand, lazily gesturing to the leather jacket he wore. “I swear… You’re inhumane.” His lips twitched with a smirk.

“Here.” He flicked a few nickels into my lap. “Go get something to drink doll, I got one more thing to do.” I groaned, and he was off with no more than a chuckle. Building towns in the middle of this hellscape was a sick kind of torture. I never imagined I’d yearn for our time back in Colter, but getting stuck in a blizzard would be a godsend right about now. 

Every inch of my body was coated in sweat, my clothes sticking to me like I’d just crawled out of the swamp. I swear my feet even sloshed in my shoes as I finally got up and started walking across town to the saloon. I’d never felt so disgusting in my life. 

The worst of it though, by far, was my god damn hair. I could feel every fucking strand clinging to my skin, scratching my neck, getting stuck in my eyes and mouth… I wanted to rip it off my scalp. I wish I’d taken Mary Beth up on her offer to braid it this morning, if only so that it was out of my face. I’d never been one to put much effort into my hair or appearance, especially when compared to the other girls in camp.

“You look like ya could use a drink.” The bartender announced as I trudged into the saloon, face beet red and body drenched. What I really needed was a wash. “Y'all got a bath here?” I asked. The bartender just jerked his chin toward the door behind him and went on polishing the glasses. I didn’t take two steps before I saw it, a barber. 

“How much for a cut?” I demanded of the greying man that was half asleep in the barbers chair, a newspaper strewn out on his chest. “Wha- What? You want a… a haircut?” He slurred as he jumped out of the chair and looked me over, his expression less than amused. 

“Well you’re a barber aintchya?” The man just gawked at me. “How much?” I repeated, pulling the change out of my pockets and setting it on his work table. “I- Uh… Well-” He stuttered, obviously torn between the money and whatever misogynistic mindset kept him from seeing me as a worthy customer. 

“These your shears?” I asked, taking the cool metal clippers in my hand. His eyes widened as if I’d just picked up a gun. I rolled my eyes at him, Fragile fucking asshole, I murmured to myself as I brought the shears to my scalp and without a second thought, began cutting. 

My attempt at a shaved head was choppy at best, but boy… the relief! It was instantaneous. Every lock of hair that fell to the ground felt as if I was shedding layer after layer of clothes I didn’t even realize had been suffocating me until they were gone. By the time I was done I felt… Well, normal. I’d expected to feel weird at best, especially if the barber's horrified expression was anything to go off of. But I felt like me, just cooler and lighter and free . 

Knowing Micah, I had plenty of time to kill. So I indulged in a cool bath and even played some blackjack as I waited for him to finish whatever business he was up to. I’d turned two nickels into a few bucks by the time he sauntered into the saloon close to dusk. 

“Lookin’ for someone?” The bartender asked as Micah leaned against the bar, scanning the place for me. I watched from the balcony as he looked the room over, his eyes sweeping right over me without a second glance. He grunted, motioning for a beer. “A lady.” He answered, finally. “Ain't we all.” The barkeep replied with a laugh. 

“Micah.” I called as I made my way down the stairs. He locked eyes with me for a moment as he downed his beer and I saw the second the realization dawned on him. He almost choked, doubling over the bar as he violently coughed up his last swig of beer. 

“Holy-” He sputtered out between coughs, slamming his hand on the bar as he regained his composure.“Shit!” His eyes were wild the next time they met mine, scanning over my freshly shaved scalp in utter disbelief. “What the hell did you do?” Not feeling the need to state the obvious, I just smiled back at him as I joined him at the bar, rubbing a hand over my stubbly head. It was quickly becoming my favorite feeling. 

“I- I thought you was a man.” He said, eyes still fixed on my hair. “And I thought you were a lady…” I retorted, pulling on a strand of his long blonde hair. “Damn shame… Woulda made a sweet couple, you and I.” I teased, but he didn’t join in. “Oh come on, Micah. Big rough outlaw like you seen crazier things than a bald lady.” He just shook his head and ran a palm over his face. 

“I got you to thank, anyway.” I said and his eyes practically bulged out his head. “Probably wouldn’t have gone through with it if I wasn’t so damn hot and exhausted from our trek this morning.” He groaned. “Please… Don’t tell Dutch that. They’ll have my hide if they think I was behind…” He waved a hand at my head, “ this.” 

Silence dragged on between us, the bartender casting the occasional curious sidelong glance in our direction. “...Wanna touch it?” I asked, trying to keep things playful and light hearted. Micah in anything other than a cocky, sleazy, flirty mood always made me feel on edge, it wasn’t natural. So I fluttered my lashes at him for good measure.

“No.” He said gruffly. The pout I put on in response was only a smidge theatrical. He avoided looking at me, instead ordering another beer and thumbing through the newspaper he’d bought. I sighed, preparing myself for a long night of Micah getting piss drunk, at least maybe after a few drinks he’d be in a better mood. 

I debated ditching him and riding back to camp myself, but I didn’t want to face the gang just yet. I’d had time enough to prepare myself for Micah’s reaction, but I wasn’t ready for the barrage of questions from the girls and teasing remarks from others just yet. I felt… good. Better than I had in a long time. I didn’t want that soured so soon. 

A well dressed man at the piano began to play then, a jazzy, upbeat tune that brought the smile back to my face. The place was finally starting to liven up. Groups of men coming off work flooded in, the saloon’s working ladies quickly swarming around, bombarding them with promises of a good time. 

None of the men paid me any mind. Occasionally they’d do a double take in my direction, look me up and down with contempt clear on their face before seeking out the more feminine looking ladies. I was more than fine with this. Who knew all I had to do to avoid the unwanted advances from men my whole life was cut my hair off. Simple minded fools, I mumbled into my whiskey as I watched the couple dancing in the middle of the room.

Downing the last of my drink I jumped from my seat and started swaying to the music, letting the alcohol loosen my limbs and the music move them. Without a partner I mostly just twirled around, rolling my hips and shuffling my feet like I'd seen those belly dancers at the fair do. Though I was sure my interpretation was… underwhelming at best. 

Lost in music and whiskey, I didn’t notice until the fourth song that I was the only one left dancing. Most of the patrons ignored me, having moved on to gambling and securing someone to warm their bed for the night. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that a pair of eyes watched me. Still twirling, I scanned the bar's inhabitants for any prying eyes and found a familiar silvery blue pair watching me under the large, white brim of a hat. Micah sat facing me, his elbows perched on the bar, beer and newspaper forgotten. His attention solely on me as I danced, seemingly just for him. 

My movements stuttered a bit under his gaze and I started toward him, intent on asking him to dance when his head jerked up and he reached out to grab me by the arm. “Let's go.” He said curtly, not bothering to meet my confused stare before he pulled me with him toward the back door. A quick glance back at the bar was all I needed to understand, Lemoyne fucking raiders. 

We went on in silence down the dirt road, our horses a good ten minute walk away on the other side of town. The evening breeze blew over me and I jolted back, overcome with a full-body shiver. I could feel the wind in every single hair on my head. I’d never felt anything like it. Though he didn’t say anything, Micah kept turning to stare at me every few steps. His brows furrowed and lips pursed.

“Why do you keep lookin’ at me like that?” I finally asked and he stopped walking, his attention fully on me as I whirled around to meet his gaze. His eyes dragged slowly over my body, starting and stopping at my hair. I folded my arms on my chest, waiting for whatever bullshit he was about to spew at me. 

He took a step closer, his steely blue eyes locked on mine. “You’re bein’ so serious” I said, stifling the impulse to retreat a step as he closed the distance between us, “It’s… unnerving.” I finished and he huffed a breathy laugh, a crooked smile creeping at the corner of his lips. 

The music from the saloon spilled out onto the path we walked and in an attempt to lighten the mood, I reached for his hands. He pulled away, seemingly on instinct, then cautiously relented his hands to me. I took them and began to sway them back and forth, as if coaxing a stubborn child to dance. A big, stupid smile grew on my face as the grumpy outlaw gave in and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in closer and leading me in a proper dance. 

It was surprisingly… tender , the dance. Slow and intimate. Micah's strong, calloused hands didn’t restrain or force me, he just held me. I was fighting the urge to lay my head on his shoulder the whole time, all too aware of how close we were already. One hand occupied in his, I trailed the other up his arm, firm and muscled. I ran my fingers idly through his hair - the sensation already growing foreign to me - and he let out the softest moan. As if trying to conceal it he began to hum along with the music, his movements never faltering as he slowly twirled us around in the dirt. 

He was a rather good dancer, strong and confident in his steps. And for how grumpy he’d been at the saloon, dancing seemed to lighten his mood significantly. “You look… good.” He said suddenly and I stumbled, stepping on his foot. Pulling me back against him he continued, “Happy.” A bit shocked by his genuine compliment, I just repeated, “I look happy? ” He cleared his throat and hummed a response “Mmhm…” 

“So you’re not gonna start callin’ me sir or boy or nothin’?” I asked and his brows raised, “Tempting… But you already got a pet name, doll. ” I rolled my eyes, “I think I might prefer boy.” He laughed and this time, so did I. 

“Ready to head back?” He asked, our dancing slowing to a gentle sway. I hummed, wrapping my arms around his neck and resting my head on his shoulder in reply. Trailing a hand up to my scalp, he began to caress the short hair there. “So soft.” He murmured, and I just giggled into his shoulder. The feeling of his hand rubbing over my scalp was so heavenly, if I was a cat, I would have purred.

[luminescenc1e]

The suffocating humidity of the bayou was sticking to his skin after he had spent nights out looking for one specific witch. For some reason, the one he was looking for had abandoned the supposed safety of the French Quarter and the rest of her coven and ventured out away from the city. Maybe that should have deterred Damon, but it hadn’t, it did, however, manage to annoy him, especially since he had been unable to scrub off the stench of the still waters he had trudged through, and without anything to show for it.

But there had been whispers that the Gilbert Compass was all the way in New Orleans, hence why he had spent the past couple of weeks enjoying bourbon and the lively atmosphere that seemed to be ever-present as soon as the day was over. The streets were always full, the bars packed and there was never a problem finding someone delicious to snack on. But his little holiday had been turned upside down when he was certain he had seen Katherine, only to discover that had not been her, but a girl that looked exactly like her.

Or better yet, the more he got to know her, the less she reminded him of Katherine. She had none of the cruel bitchiness that Katherine seemed to drown in. “ Well…” Leaning forward, arms crossed over the wooden surface, a smirk firmly in place. It was not a difficult thing to flirt with her, quite enjoyable actually. “ I was just thinking how two heads are better than one, and seeing as you are far more knowledgable about old and dusty things, things forgotten with time. I wanted to propose a sort of working relationship - but I wouldn’t be against us mixing work and pleasure if you’re not. “

With a raise of his eyebrows, Damon took the small booklet out of his pocket and slid it towards her. “ I’m looking for this, it’s a family heirloom if you will, and I have it on good authority that it might be somewhere in the city, so I’d appreciate your help with finding it. Of course, name your price. I could pay you…with whatever you want. “ A wink before he leaned back, eyes moving across the endless amount of different knickknacks around the room. “ So, what do you say Cami? “

continued from here with @dopplgaenger

[xxgotthedevilinsidexx]

@therebetterbepie asked:

"dying keeps moving lower on the list of worst things that could happen to me."

【❖】  ――――   Despite  the  shocking  nature  of  the  situation,  Arthur  remained  unfazed  due  to  the  countless  experiences  he  had  already  faced  here.  ❝  Mr.  ,  you  keep  pokin’  around  the  Bayou  at  night  you  might  find  out  just  how  true  that  statement  really  is.  ❞  Out  here,  there  were  things  much  more  dangerous  than  just  alligators.  The  moon  light  casting  eerie  shadows  over  the  murky  waters.  The  air  was  thick  with  humidity,�� making  it  difficult  to  breathe.  The  trees  whisper  ancient  secrets,  their  branches  reaching  out  like  skeletal  fingers  ready  to  snatch  up  any  unsuspecting  wanderers.  Arthur's  senses  were  on  high  alert,  every  rustle  of  leaves  making  him  instinctively  tighten  his  grip  on  the  hilt  of  his  trusted  blade.  He  typically  didn't  risk  himself  for  anyone  other  than  those  he  held  dear  because  it  had  come  back  to  bite  him  on  the  ass  a  few  times,  but  recently  he  seems  to  be  experiencing  a  shift  in  his  mindset  —  or  perhaps  his  conscience  is  starting  to  eat  at  him.

❝  Can’t  recall  ever  seein’  you  around  these  parts.  What  you  doin’  out  here  anyway  ?  ❞  As  they  trudged  through  the  thick,  humid  swamp,  the  silence  was  heavy  around  them,  broken  only  by  the  occasional  croak  of  a  frog  or  rustle  in  the  bushes.  Arthur  led  the  way,  his  keen  eyes  scanning  their  surroundings  for  any  signs  of  danger.  Night  Folk  were  always  out  and  about  this  time  of  night.  Those  crazy  sons  of  bitches.  Suddenly,  a  low  growl  rumbled  from  the  bushes  ahead.  Arthur  instinctively  reached  for  his  revolver,  his  eyes  scanning  the  darkness  for  any  sign  of  movement.  The  growl  grew  louder,  more  menacing,  as  a  pair  of  glowing  yellow  eyes  emerged  from  the  shadows.  It  was  not  a  monster  or  a  wild  beast  that  stood  before  them,  but  a  lone  wolf  with  fur  as  black  as  night.  ❝  Mr.  ,  I’m  startin’  to  think  troubles  written  all  over  your  name.  ❞  Its  teeth  were  long  and  razor-sharp,  and  its  claws  were  as  sharp  as  any  blade.  ❝  Let's  not  make  any  sudden  moves.  ❞

[theeternalwombtarot]

11/27/23

Little channeled message for the collective. This one’s really general, I didn’t pull any piles or anything I just let the cards come out so so take what resonates and leave what doesn’t, I love you! ❤️

***

collective is growing flawlessly. Great deal of you have broken a large amount of general curses and trudged through some deep waters for a really long time and came out on the other side unscathed and ready for better. I’m getting imagery of a bayou or a swamp, one with crocs in it or various other organisms that could attack you or become an issue if they really wanted to but there’s something about a select few of you that has made it to the other side protected, that has defied all odds, for those of you who are African American have ancestors who’ve passed away within the United States during the antebellum era who are watching you very closely and protecting you. Some of them are asking that you light candles for them or come and speak to them soon or connect with them or your roots. The color purple, orange, green, and red are significant. The color purple the movie could be significant as well, I wasn’t thinking that originally but that could be something you need to see or need to watch soon. You could be feeling nostalgic or be feeling a pull to the past, be interested in historical themes at the moment or be feeling pulled by a past version of yourself from a past life.

Those of you who are connected to your spirit guides or have had past life guided meditations done or awakenings, may need to revisit, or speak to your ancestors and spirit guides soon. Those of you who work with deities and gods and goddesses they wanna speak to you as they’ve been quite lately. Deep spiritual awakenings and enlightenment is on the horizon. The other side is calling. Answer. The number 22 is significant. Tap into your power, turn within. Rise. Some of you could be feeling a little primal lately or feeling very ambitious, driven, or aggressive. Spirit says they’re fueling you to go after your dreams. Especially if you’re African American, ancestors are pulling up with all their energy, they’re offering it to you, they said we wanna see you win. There’s a lot of pride here, there’s something very deep, ancestral and strong in the air right now. Spirit says we wanna see how special you are. Call your friend or reach out to someone apart of your soul tribe today or tonight or whenever you see this.

You know who I’m speaking of. Spirit says we want you stand tall in your decisions, don’t let anything knock you down, don’t let anyone tell you what you can and cannot do. Some of you have answers that we’re waiting on your arrival, you’re a generational curse breaker, the baton is in your hands. You’ve got people in your past who haven’t changed, who you’ve left behind or moved on from who want your attention, your forgiveness, and want access to you but you’ve left and opened up new doors. Something is in store for you in about one week. In one week a new part of your life begins or something important is about to happen. People adore you, past and present. You may be out of sight but you’re not out of mind and the people who are watching feel drawn to you. Some of you have met a new soulmate or divine counterpart as well whose in your energy and wants to spend more time with you and who thinks you’re the bees knees and the greatest thing since sliced bread. Good luck, and I love you. ❤️

[ritzy-reminiscence]

─♣️─ Lackadaisy : Shut-Eye²

⸝⸝ tl;dr : continuing on the shnor mimimimi headcanons from this post ! features the savoys, mordecai heller, mitzi may, and the lackadaisy band as a bonus !

🍺 Nicodeme Savoy + Serafine Savoy

I feel like, after trudging around in the bayous and the swamps and sleeping wherever their exhausted bodies drop on for most of their childhood, the Savoys are extremely picky about their sleeping accomodations.

Think of satin sheets, smooth as cream and fine as silk; embroidered pillows bursting with cotton and feathers; blankets upon comforters upon quilts; mattresses so fluffy and soft you sink into it upon contact. The Savoys demand the best when it comes to their beds, and considering their reputation around Marigold, I doubt anyone is brave (or stupid) enough to contradict their wishes.

And it would be alright if they actually slept in it but like .. they just don't .. well, most of the time, anyways.

Their evenings are spent not in their castle-worthy beds but rather in the Marigold room, chatting and smoking and drinking until the chickens start to crow. And even when Marigold ushers its last guests out the door, a couple dozen liquor bottles and boxes of party food somehow finds it way up the Savoys' suite, where the distinct beats of drums and gossip thrums in the room long after the sun rises.

Honestly, I'm surprised they can manage to go on rumrunning duty after getting shitfaced drunk the night (and day) before 💀

And when they do get to sleep, Serafine in particular really likes the windows thrown open to catch the nighttime breeze. It reminds her of the gales that go through the bayou when she and Nicodeme were lost in there, and as much as she hated every other aspect of the bayou, the gales specifically gave her a bit of comfort during those times.

Nicodeme's a blanket hogger. That's it. That's the post.

ALSOO ,, their room in the mornings is just . Eugh .

Littered with cigarette butts, burned-through matches, half-drunk bottles of gin and whiskey and whatever they could smuggle out of the speakeasy; pillows everywhere, the mattress hanging by a thread on the bedframe, and the sheets all nestled around Nicodeme while he sleeps on his back with his hands clasped together like a princess and while Serafine is 0.5 inches away from falling off the bed.

I just want to address a personal apology to whoever cleans their room up when they're gone because I know damn well the Savoys aren't doing it 💀💀

•☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾• ₊° ♣️ °₊ •☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾•

🪓 Mordecai Heller

On nights when he's on "Asa's Shadow" duty, I'd say that Mordecai wouldn't really collapse on his bed from exhaustion the second after Marigold closes down and he's free from all the musical notes and murmurs and shrieks of laughter that he's been enduring all night.

If anything, I think he'd really take the time to unwind and calm down. He'd sit at his kitchen table and drink some tea, maybe cook up a couple of slices of French toast to fill his stomach as he never really eats anything that's served at Marigold -- he thinks too many people have touched it and it makes him feel all .. icky.

He'd also spend just a pinch of time cleaning the house; nothing too big, just rearranging some books in the shelves, sweeping the floors and wiping dust off the windowsills and tables.

Oh, and he'd read books before sleeping as well. Thick ones. Hardcover ones. He wouldn't read new books or books that he's put off reading because of his workload, but rather one that he's familiar with. Something he's read so many times that, at this point, he could recite it cover to cover without needing to look. In his mind, it helps him relax and destress because of the comforting familiarity of the paragraphs, the unsurprising and mundane words that his eyes had glossed over so many times before, the feel of the worn pages that his fingers had held and brushed too many times to count.

(Do I want to be a book? Yes. Yes, I do.)

As being a tuxedo cat means getting hot easily -- and that's a massive yikes for Mordecai -- I think that he sets the blanket aside and sleeps without one during the summer. Or if the night is chilly enough to warrant the presence of a blanket, he'd use a thin one, or he'd just wear pajamas and a long-sleeved top.

And I'd say Mordecai sleeps on his stomach, with his arms all wrapped around a pillow. Something about the way the soft, slow breeze of the fan hits the fur his back lulls him into a slumber like no other. Plus, it keeps him from feeling too hot and sweaty.

Tl;dr : Cold pillows, cold sheets, cold room for Mordecai. Anything other than that and he'd much rather sleep outside than have a single bead of sweat show up on his body during the night 💀

•☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾• ₊° ♣️ °₊ •☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾•

🍷 Mitzi May

Oh honey .. Mitzi does not sleep well, that's all I can tell ya'.

In the timeline of the comic, I'd say that Mitzi rarely gets any sleep, and that she manages to get through the day with a conconction of the strongest coffee she could find mixed with whatever leftover beer she could spare.

Atleast, during the daytime, she has Rocky's shenanigans to keep her mind occupied. But once the sun sets and Mitzi climbs the narrow stairs to the third floor of the cafe's building .. it all just starts to unfold and her facade gives way to weary sighs and smudged mascara.

(Alright, that's enough angst )

On nights where it's not so bad, Mitzi would spend most of her time in Atlas's old office, talking to his painting and keeping him updated on what's happening. By this point his painting has become a diary for her, and although she knew it was stupid, she couldn't help but confide everything to it, as if it were a best friend. Even though his painting never moved, never talked, never offered any words of comfort, Mitzi always finds herself calmer afterwards.

Then she'd go into their - her - bedroom, and she'd start cleaning herself up. She'd do it slow, like it was her first time handling all the creams and washes on her vanity table. For Mitzi, this was when she really feels at peace. When it's just her, her cold creams, and the hum of the building's old heating system running in the walls. There was something in the soft, sure way she kept herself clean that made everything just a bit more bearable.

Mitzi likes to sleep on her side, with a huge pillow right besides for her to hold. Regardless of the weather, she'd keep herself under the covers. She falls asleep pretty easily, but on the nights where her troubles become too much to bear, she just stares at the lights of the buildings across the street, watching each window turn from gold to black, and play a little game with herself in which she tries to fall asleep before the light in the last window turns off.

Unorthodox, but it works everytime.

And in the morning, Mitzi finds herself with a little bit more willpower to carry on than the night before.

•☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾• ₊° ♣️ °₊ •☽────✧ ‧˚₊ ° ♣️ ° ₊˚‧✧────☾•

🎷 Lackadaisy Speakeasy House Band (Bonus !)

I've read somewhere that Zib lives in the same building as the rest of the band so ..

Let's just say their landlord hates them. It's bad enough that the sounds of their instruments creaking and groaning along the tight squeezes of the hallway was enough to drive anyone up a wall, but do they really have to rehearse in their rooms, too?

And don't get me started when they having a little (BIG) jamming session. Like, yeah, they sound good at first but eventually it all just devolves into a cacophony of god-awful squeals from someone's saxophone.

Zib himself sleeps on his bed (a thin mattress on a rickety old bedframe .. someone get him a proper bed please .) most of the time, but every now and then the band likes to crash at his room for shits and giggles.

Cue Zib tangled up with Sy on the floor, with Ben sleeping on the bed like he owns the place, and J.J. and Mozzie snoozing in the makeshift bed they made pushing two old couches together.

Hey, atleast they pay their rents on time .. right ?

[sukihallows]

Doll Swamp [creepypasta]

In the middle of a swampy bayou, there is a shack that appears to have been abandoned for decades. All around this creepy shack were dolls, effigies, strange carvings and symbols that appear to resemble satanic or voodoo imagery. It's a local tradition for teenagers to go out to this creepy shack and prove their courage, some say that you're supposed to take one of the dolls, others say that you're supposed to leave a doll as an offering. Regardless of how the story goes, anybody who ever approaches this shack never seems to be able to describe what the inside looks like.

In truth, many, many years ago, in the 1970s, a woman once lived in this shack. She called herself “Sunny Dae" and was a simple woman, choosing to live by her faith away from prying eyes and the judgment of her peers. The life of a hermit suited her very nicely, and she knew all she had to do was put her trust in the old gods and they would provide for her. The swamp around her was teeming with life, from energetic fish and frogs to nutritious bark and mushrooms. Truly, she had her pick of nature's grocery store right outside her doors. 

The swamp around her had grown so accustomed to her presence that even the predators paid her no mind. The spiders kept the mosquitoes away, the venomous snakes would hiss a little song as she passed but otherwise pay no mind, and the alligators approached, not with malice, but with rather curiosity seeming to take sparks of joy as she would gently pet their snout as she trudged by through the mud. Even the mud below the water, that was dangerous and capable of swallowing a human in seconds, seemed to become firm under her feet alone and allowed her safe passage to wherever she pleased. This was, truly, her element and it seemed the forest was all the more happy to welcome her. 

She was a pagan and a practicing swamp witch - never sticking to a singular form of practice, she welcomed the teachings of all the old gods into her heart. Dabbling in Norse magics, what voodoo and hoodoo she could get her hands on, and then the help of the passing druid and Wiccan practices to fill in her gaps. Her life would have been endlessly blissful, if it wasn't for the absolute tragedy that was the general public. 

Just outside of the swamps borders, where the land became solid for all and the sun made water dry, lived the rest of Louisiana's societies. With strong traditions in the occult, one would think that they would welcome the odd and different with open arms, but those same people, obviously, do not live amongst the southern streets. In truth, hatred lived here, as it did anywhere ignorance refused to give way to curiosity. Religious persecution was alive and well, and sought victims anywhere it deemed unclean. Though typically it was the affluent white that used their religion as a cover story to persecute those of a different complexion, and one that practices and believes in the ways of the old gods was an all too easy target.

Though the woman lived her life in peace for many years, all things in this world must, naturally, come to an end. Sunny Dae’s end was just as violent as her persecutors deemed it necessary. It was a day where she broke her tradition, where she wandered just a little too far out of the protections of her swamp. She was spotted and noted by the enemy, and then followed into the murky trees where they believed no one would witness their actions. Their attack was swift, the excuse of violent gators in the area giving them probable cause to carry the weapons they used. When they finally stood back and looked upon their actions, there was not a section of skin left unblemished or marked by their attack. 

The group started arguing amongst themselves, how are they to dispose of the body or were they just to leave it where it was. While the group weighed their options, they didn't notice the swamp around them taking its own action. It wasn't until one of the men plummeted into the mud knee deep that the others noticed the gators circling them. As one woman screamed and was made to run, a whipping vine thrashed and wrapped itself around her wrists and neck, yanking her into the treetops so fast, the crack heard could very well have been the vine or her neck. The man stuck in the mud struggled to get free and run away, but the more he thrashed about, the quicker he sank. When there was nothing but his head showing above the water, he finally, desperately, screamed for help - only to let out nothing but a gurgle, as the water rushed into his lungs. A couple of the group readied their weapons and attempted to attack the living fossils, only for their attacks and weapons to bounce off of their scaly hides. These were not like normal gators, not only were they terrifying in their size but their skin seemed to be made of stone, or perhaps even steel. They were helpless as they were ripped apart by the creatures, and what they did not devour, the swamp happily accepted into its murky water.

A lone survivor ran from the carnage, screams of mercy and apologies rattled her chest as she weaved through the grabbing trees. Desperately clinging to hope, in her mind she prays to beings beyond her own understanding to have mercy on her. Unknowingly, she wanders the only safe path until she runs to a moss covered shack. Without a second thought she rushes into the building, throwing the door open and tossing herself inside, using her entire body to slam the rickety door shut and hold back all of the horrors behind her. 

Finally, she feels a moment to catch her breath. She slides to the floor, with sobs rattling her body as she, desperately, tries to keep what she just witnessed I would have her mind. As she slowly looks up around her it begins to realize something feels off about this place. She's inside of a building but it feels like she's being watched. Scanning around to the single room dwelling, she notices a pile of rags with, what looks to be, a hand sticking out from underneath it. Her hands tremble as she uses the wood of the door to lift herself up, her eyes never leaving that singular hand. As she slowly stumbles her way towards it, she could almost swear that she sees one of the fingers twitch, but she is unsure if it truly moved or if it was the dizziness playing tricks on her eyesight. When she finally reaches the pile of clothing, she takes a firm grasp of the cloth on the top and readies herself. With a sharp breath through clenched teeth, she rips the cloth away, only for the smallest squeak of a scream to die in her throat. What lay under the cloth was not a corpse like she expected - but a life-size effigy of mismatched mannequin parts, machined together to make a queer ball-jointed doll. It was dirty and dressed in rags, the face damaged in a way that made the woman think of a discarded porcelain doll. With a heaving sigh of relief, she curses the doll and crudely throws the cloth back at its face. The woman looked around the room again, running her shaky hands through her hair and over her sundress in an effort to calm her still shaking nerves. The feeling of being watched had not gone away, but she now brushed that off to the back of her mind with the assumption that it was simply the stupid doll behind her. 

Then a sharp and sudden crack could be heard, like the sound of locking two pieces of hinged together, or like clicking a piece of furniture back into place. The woman stopped breathing, and, if it wasn't for the pounding in her ears and the back of her head, she would have assumed that her heart had stopped beating. The crack came from directly behind her. She knew what now stood directly behind her. Fearing nothing else could be done, she slowly turned around and met the broken and emotionless glass eyes of the now self-standing human doll. The woman's eyes left the doll's face, drawn instead to something swinging around the doll's neck. It was a strange pendant in the shape of a small figure or mini voodoo doll, seemingly made out of human hair and carved bone dangling from a long pendant around the doll's neck. The doll's head turned one way and then another, each time making a clicking noise, as if the joints had never been moved before. The doll follows the woman's eyes down to the pendant, and then slowly looks back up at the woman.

“The swamp knows. The swamp doesn't forgive." 

The voice rattled as it left the dolls unmoving closed mouth, sounding like an echo as if it was radiating from the cracks in the face instead of the mouth. The woman opened her mouth to say something - only to scream instead - as the doll swung only its upper half around to be facing backwards and then flopping forward again. With both hands and feet on the ground, the doll scuttled with blinding speed and rushed towards the woman. Screaming and panicking again, the woman hurries out of the hutch and back into the swamp. At first only looking back, she faces forward again only to see that she was surrounded by bubbling swamp water, and open mouths of hissing gators. The woman, sharply, turned back around only to see the doll quickly rushing down the stairs of the shack and directly at her. She had no time, she had no choice.

Face the open mouths of the very beasts that ate her friends, or face the wrath of this possessed doll. The choice was made for her, and her screams were only drowned out by the squelching cracks of bone - as if being manipulated like a broken doll.

art by Peccatum

[iincantatorum]

@gretaphasmatosmartin 🌊 Early Return 🌊 || Ulysses & Greta

Sea foam and sand adorned his skin, as the warlock returned earlier than the week he allotted to the depths of the sea. There was a satchel of colorful vials and deep sea kelps, all of which were the pertinent ingredients for Ulysses's spell. He had never swam faster, almost like he was in a race to capture all the right ingredients, while not daring to miss a single one out of carelessness. Greta was counting on him, he thought. He can recall how she looked, the way he can feel her gaze on him as he took the steps into the ocean and transformed into a kraken.

Ulysses told Greta could stay in his bayou cabin. There was no need for a key, he had a protective charm that selectively permeated only one being, and that was his sweet witch. Only she could enter, use her magick there with no worries, and treat it like it was her own place, whenever she felt like visiting.

He kept walking, his skin absorbing all moisture and droplets in the process as means of self preservation. As he trudged through the drier sand and felt his bare feet touch soft grass, he can see smoke come out from his chimney, and smiled in realization.

Greta was home.

He turned the knob on his door, feeling a shift in energy or maybe that was a change in air pressure as he opened his door. Entering, he placed his leather satchel on the nearest table he had made out of discarded driftwood, and then searched. Hastening had a bit of a toll on him, but he didn't care. He didn't think it was right to make Greta wait, when he made promises. Also he knew he would miss her- why take his time?

"Greta? I'm back a little earlier than I mentioned. Where are you?"

@gretaphasmatosmartin

[hellqueengaige]

Going Live!

Trudging through the bayou in hunt showdown!

[cursedbcrn]

HAYLEY MARSHALL (@adeathsentence) sent [ GRAVE ]:     after going their separate ways, the receiver learns that the sender has died. upon travelling to their graveside, how do they respond to this tragedy?

It was a miracle that Hope didn't cause a twelve-car pileup on the interstate on their drive back to New Orleans. Probably due to the multiple calming spells that Freya cast over her but it only left Hope in a half-numb, agonized state. She stared blankly out of the passenger window, only minutely paying attention to anything her aunt said.

Her mind's eye replayed the conversation in her dorm room, the way her heart had been racing as soon as she bolted back into consciousness, only to stop when she saw the look on Freya's face. The dried tears that told her everything she needed to know.

As they pulled into the garage of the compound that was supposed to have been her home, Hope sprinted up to her bedroom and the entire building trembled down to its foundation as she slammed the door. The silence was overwhelming and her chest felt like it was about to cave in. Everywhere Hope looked had pieces of Hayley strewn about, right down to the way that traces of her shampoo still lingered in the corners. The guilt was unending, and she screamed and screamed until Freya burst through the door with a sleeping spell on her lips and then there was only merciful darkness.

The next few days were more or less the same, and by the time she was trudging through the bayou for her final goodbye, Hope felt like she'd been scraped raw and laid over a bed of coals. A hush fell over the crowd as they walked up, Crescents stepping back to give her a wide berth as she walked to the dock. The sun was in its final descent past the horizon, torches were already lit to light up the clearing, and Hope looked around at the crowd of people, not just wolves, but vampires and witches too. Those who loved Hayley and everything she stood for, and Hope was breathless as she once more realized the enormity of her loss.

Their loss.

The boat that they fashioned for Hayley was beautiful, covered with flowers and herbs that are almost enough to cover the brutal way she died. And while Hope knew that it was Pack tradition, her heart caught in her throat when the boat was set ablaze for Hayley's final journey down the river.

Tears clouded her vision and Hope's voice broke as she watched the boat float away, and she didn't know how she would ever feel whole again. There was rage, grief, terror, and so many other things that she didn't know how to process without her mother, and the only thing that stopped yet another meltdown was feeling a warm hand surround her own. And though the comfort was all too brief, it was enough to ground Hope and she finally knew what had to be done.

She had to take back the Hollow.

[hubblespacemission]

Do you think Becky regretted stinging Kian? Do you think she hesitated?

Do you think that Becky forgot everything for a moment, just to be in love with Kian one last time?

[theultrablog]

Pulp Storytime #33: Beignet, Done That!(Adapted from The Heart of Yhtill by Jason Vey.)

Beware the hand that drags you out of the water… When you don’t even know you’re drowning. New Orleans, August 1935. A low patter of rain drums against the windows of the House of the Rising Sun. Penelope “Penny” An’Te pulls in a pile of chips. She dragged her buddies Giula "Lala" Santinella and Florence Zee here to show off America’s amazing nightlife. And everything goes fine until Bebe Brossard takes the stage. Devika and Penelope literally hold Florence back from storming the stage to “join” her biggest musical rival. As Brossard exposes the crowd to the latest and hippest invention, the electric guitar, a bunch of calamities occur. And the session was so action-packed I can only hope to summarize, not retell. Interspersed with action was levity and some of the weirdest drama of the campaign so far. A disguised waiter shoots a blow dart, accidentally hitting JP Diamond, private eye. He’s ZOMBIFIED, and only the combined efforts of the characters can keep him down, literally. They toss tables and chairs, anything within arm's reach, until the bouncers can gag and remove the biting deadman. They manage to get the dart, and through their contacts, find out it’s similar to a design by Marie LeVeau, the voodoo queen of New Orleans. Here are just a sampling of the conflicts: *Piloting a fan boat into the bayou, and helping the voodoo queen hold off a siege by the grotesque Juillet Family. (Turns out the villains of "Wives of March" aren't as extinct as previously thought!) At this point, the players return in their muddy eveningwear, trudging through the hotel lobby and arguing about who gets the first access to the shower. When they wake up, they get good and bad news: the private detective’s companion last night is offering them a lot of money to investigate her missing husband in their stead. The bad news is that a hurricane is hitting the city. *Next is investigating a creepy southern mansion as the floodwaters rise. Penny, former Hawaiian lifeguard, drops down to a one piece and explores the murky basement with the flashlight. Not a master of investigation, stunt woman Lala just grabs bags and bags of everything. The owner of the house had gone mad looking for Irem of the pillars, the mystical city of Muslim folklore. The gang rushes to the airport. Before they land, they realize that Saudi Arabia isn’t the greatest place for unaccompanied women… —— Once they arrive, the players discover an ancient brotherhood trying to prevent anyone from finding Irem. (They discover this by almost getting killed via blow dart.) They spend the gambling winnings ASAP, fueling up for a journey into the desert…But there is one person who wants to meet the players. One of the world’s most famous female directors, and she has a starring role that would be perfect for Lala, who agrees immediately. As they head out on a two-week desert journey, Lala brags about her newfound fortune. Florence explains who Leni Riefenstahl is. The desert was filled with action. Impatient Penny refuses to wait for the camel-using Brotherhood. *The exhausted trio arrives at the semi-ruined city… and is immediately accosted by giant monsters. They just barely evade a roc with a wingspan the size of a school bus. They take cover in a temple, but accidentally awaken its guardian, a flesh worm multiple stories tall. To be continued!

Marie LeVeau.

[solaariaa]

𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥. 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

751 words.

Louisiana sun bled behind the Bayou Soley backdrop: thin beams of light splitting through the spanish moss that lazily draped across cypress tree branches. Cattails swayed as the water’s surface lapped gently against the sloping banks of the Mosquito Point settlement.

The bayou was unnaturally still, until a great blue heron laboured up into the air, settling in the high boughs. Soon after, a woman emerged from the trail leading to the small town of Hazel Rock. What looked to be the carcass of a doe was slung over the breadth of her shoulders.

The short, curved brim of her leather hat shaded a majority of her features, though failed to prevent the beads of sweat rolling down the length of her neck and gathering on her chest from glimmering like small diamonds. Nor did it hide her resolve; with her fingers curled tightly around the doe’s slim legs, she continued the gruelling trudge along the dirt road. She chose to ignore the alligators resting just off the waterfront, reflective lenses behind each pair of eyes flaming red in the low light.

She resigned herself to the fact it would be dark by the time she reached Mosquito Point. And indeed it was; water twinkled under the moonlight, gangways illuminated in warm hues from lanterns strung up between houses on repurposed fishing wire. Overhead, the cypress tree leaves whispered and little tufts of moss blew down to rest on the water’s surface.

The woman continued to follow the path of beaten earth until the mouth widened into the Dust Bowl. Smooth logs from twenty years of locals sitting upon them surrounded a small fire, the flames crackled and popped, filling the brief gaps between light conversation. A couple of heads turned or peered over shoulders, half dunked into the abyss by flickering shadows cast from the fire’s glow.

“Hell, ain’t that a pretty sight!” exclaimed one of the men around the fire, “you drag that off one of them there swamp puppies?” Jovial laughs echoed around the fire.

“He’s messin’ witcha, Manon,” spoke another, bringing a jar of moonshine up to his lips, “ain’t that right, Adonis? Know well an’ good our Mimi done that herself.” He took a healthy swig while Manon grimaced at the nickname.

“Course,” Adonis replied, head perking up like a small periscope from the tin of beans he had been eating, “messin’ witcha, Mimi.” A lopsided smile slipped onto his features.

“Awright,” the other responded, taking another generous mouthful of moonshine, “now where’d you get her?”

“Snake Hill,” she replied, adjusting the doe’s weight on her shoulders before she stepped up onto one of the gangways, “figured I'd be nice and buy dinner.”

A series of laughs filtered out into the air as Manon continued her trek across the winding walkways between houses both built on the waterfront and those upon stilts. She passed several docked boats densely packed with gillnets and fishing gear. A large carp rose to the surface of the dark water, gulped air and then sank mysteriously into the depths again, leaving widening rings on the water.

Ducking under a low hanging thread of fishing wire, she climbed the wooden ramp up to the platform of her home. Shrugging her shoulders, she discarded the doe. The carcass hit the wood with a large thud, stilts shaking momentarily before settling once more. Manon was not disturbed by the potential lack of structural integrity and instead pulled her rifle up and over her head, choosing to lean it against the side of the shack. Muscles in her shoulders ached as she reached upwards, pulling the heavy S shaped wire along a rounded plank of wood she had fashioned to the side of her shack. The sound of her soaked cotton shirt peeling away from her skin reminded her it had been drenched by blood that had steadily drooled out of the doe’s open wound as she carried it back from Snake Hill Meadow.

“Hope you gotta strong stomach,” she huffed, crouching down to once again hoist the doe up and over her shoulder before depositing it onto the hook. A thin rivulet of blood soaked the doe’s fur further after the barb nestled into the depth of the flesh. Next, she removed her hunting knife from her gunbelt and spoke morosely: “‘bout to get real messy.”

In the distance, the Dust Bowl’s fire dimmed on hot coals. Somewhere a coyote yammered, and a dog answered from the south. Both carried on the nighttime breeze.

[sinceileftyoublog]

Robert Finley Interview: Something to Laugh About

BY JORDAN MAINZER

The most stunning and heartbreaking song on blues singer Robert Finley's latest album Black Bayou (Easy Eye Sound), is made up. On album closer "Alligator Bait", the narrator--at first talking rather than singing--describes trudging through the swamp, his grandfather having just purchased for him a pair of hip boots. Backed by Kenny Brown's spindly guitars, Eric Deaton's slinky bass, and Jeffrey Clemens' slow-burning, stomping drums, Finley's gruff voice tells the story of this character wading around, waiting for something to happen. He accidentally steps on an alligator's back, thinking it's a log; his grandfather shoots the gator after it reacts. Matter-of-fact, Finley states, darkly humorous, "A lotta kids got ate like that." But on the second half of the song, he sings, wailing like a bluesman who had his heart broken. Only this time, he's taken aback by familial betrayal, realizing his grandfather had only bought him the hip boots and told him to enter the swamp in order to use him as alligator bait. When the narrator goes home to tell his father, his father laughs and brushes him aside, confessing that the same thing happened to him when he was a kid. Most of us face a mini existential crisis when we learn our parents aren't perfect. The narrator of "Alligator Bait", on the other hand, has just learned of his own dispensability.

When I spoke to Finley over the phone a few days before Black Bayou was released in late October, he confessed, "'Alligator Bait' was supposed to be cheerful. I didn't want to make him look like a mean old grandpa. It's just something to laugh about," before pausing and adding, "Maybe it'll make some kids stay away from the creek." Indeed, seven years into his improbable comeback, Finley views his role as a singer and entertainer as twofold: meeting the audience at the heart while simultaneously giving them advice, telling them the barebones truth when other authority figures won't. On Black Bayou, he reckons with ideas of homesickness and loneliness, lust and love, selflessness and salvation. Buoyed by longtime collaborator Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys, Finley wrote all of the songs in the studio, and his familiarity with his supporting cast of musicians resulted in songs that were both efficiently recorded and emotionally acute. Brown's guitar winces with longing on "Livin' Out A Suitcase" as Finley's tired of traveling. On "Waste Of Time", a song that sees Finley taking pride in rural living even if it means missing out on opportunities provided by cities, the buzz-saw guitars and Clemens' clattering percussion yield a perfect maximalism to go along with Finley's claims that, yes, there's still a lot to digest right outside your doorstep. "There are so many guys down here with super talent," Finely said. "They haven't been exposed to the right places."

In fact, Finley's daughter and grandaughter, Christy Johnson and LaQuindrelyn McMahon, offer a prototype. Like many musicians and singers in rural Louisiana, Johnson had long been singing at church, specifically in the youth choir before she started traveling with her father, joining him on his 2019 America's Got Talent stint and eventually recording background vocals on 2021's autobiographical Sharecropper's Son. And Finley insisted to Auerbach on McMahon singing backup on Black Bayou, though she's also in her own band, according to Finley. After all, there's not much of a difference between blues and gospel music. As Finley puts it, it's just "Oh, baby!" versus "Oh, lord!"

Really, Finley feels his songs could essentially soundtrack various milestones or important events in life. He made sweet doo wop outlier "Lucky Day" for others. "It's a wedding song. It's for people celebrating their 50th anniversary," he said. "It's one of those songs you can use in different situations." In contrast, he describes "Susie Q"-esque lurker "What Goes Around Comes Around" as "basically scripture," even as he sings lines like, "I got my whiskey and my woman / I ain't worried about a thing." Living the way you want and keeping to yourself can be a holy exercise, too. "They're the true facts. No sugarcoating," Finley said, adding, "Something the preacher ain't gonna say. They'd kick him out the church!"

The line between Finley's performance as authentic versus an act is not one he's really ultimately concerned with, as the very fact that he's gotten here is surreal. "I'm living my childhood dream at my age," he said. "I get a chance to express myself. To be able to go back and look at myself on film to see how I've made a fool of myself." Multiple times throughout our conversation, he referred to himself as in total service of the audience, wanting to make them laugh, wanting to make their lives easier, even if he needs to paint himself as a sinner or dunce in order to do so. Still, he has his head on his shoulders. "There's a difference between acting a fool and being a fool," Finley said. "One means you're a really good actor because you can act crazy, and the other says, 'You're fucking crazy for real.'" Find me a preacher who'd admit that!

[oapostle]

"So you ain't a pinch concerned about all that..." There was a pause, tongue darting out to dappen cracked and dried lips as he conjure up the proper word, "Hootin' and hollerin' then? That sounded like... hell, I don't know what that sounded like, darlin'."

He's heard packs of coyotes yelping wildly in the night, the screams of panthers, the howl of wolves, and such other things in the night that would snatch the soul right out of an unsuspecting persons. This was something very different. It caused the hunter to stand suddenly from where he sat and peer out the window. Also excepting to see something even beyond his comprehension. But his hostess did nothing but bat a curious eye at him when he looked back to Isis for confirmation. They both heard the same thing, right? Her calm eased him down from that flight of action. Though the edge of action was still just one leap away.

@creolejesus ❛ stuff like that happens here all the time. ❜

"Happens all the time, huh..." Giles echoed, once more turning his sights out into the darkness of the bayou. As often as he trudged through the swampy terrain, the hunter never could be to careful on his travels. Teaming with all matter of life and all matters of secrets still, dangerous ones he'd wager. "Guess it comes around when I ain't present. You sure you don't want me to look? I'd only take a walk 'round the house."