F
Folksy
Guest
Original poster
[fieldbox="Southern Gothic, #002600, dashed, 10, Cinzel"]
It's only eighty-five degrees outside, but it's so humid that it feels more like a hundred. The cicadas scream around you. You can't see them through the thick canopy of hanging moss and oak branches, but they make their presence known. You can also hear your heartbeat. It's so loud you think it's going to fly out of your chest, that anyone nearby can hear the BABOOM BABOOM BABOOM of a body running on adrenaline. You are willing your heart to quiet the fuck down when you notice the cicadas have stopped. A nauseating scent wafts in front of you. It's a deadly mixture of death and swamp. Any normal person might have been spooked and left, but you're on a mission. Every death, every jinx, every little bit of appalling detail brings you closer to solving the death of your friend. [/fieldbox]
It's only eighty-five degrees outside, but it's so humid that it feels more like a hundred. The cicadas scream around you. You can't see them through the thick canopy of hanging moss and oak branches, but they make their presence known. You can also hear your heartbeat. It's so loud you think it's going to fly out of your chest, that anyone nearby can hear the BABOOM BABOOM BABOOM of a body running on adrenaline. You are willing your heart to quiet the fuck down when you notice the cicadas have stopped. A nauseating scent wafts in front of you. It's a deadly mixture of death and swamp. Any normal person might have been spooked and left, but you're on a mission. Every death, every jinx, every little bit of appalling detail brings you closer to solving the death of your friend. [/fieldbox]
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