Deep in the forgotten south, where the roads crumble into dirt and the air hangs heavy with heat, you’ll find the town of Port Laveau. It sits low in the bayou, hemmed in by swamp and silence, far from the reach of clean law or clean conscience. The land is soft beneath your boots, and the past presses in from all sides.
Laveau is not loud. It does not roar like a city. Its power whispers through backrooms, bloodlines, and the hush of trees that never stop watching. Here, the Sheriff’s Department is not just a law office. It’s a tool, one of many held by a syndicate that runs deeper than any badge. The crews answer to the same masters, though they’ll never say it out loud.
This place is old, not just in years but in spirit. You can feel it in the cracked paint of the churches and the long shadows on the water. Some folks say the town is cursed. Others believe it’s protected by things older than scripture. Either way, there’s no denying the pull of the bayou. People vanish without a sound. Others return changed, speaking of lights in the fog and voices that never came from a man.
The town feeds on secrets. Everyone is hiding something. The preacher’s boy runs with a crew. The waitress reads fortunes between shifts. The deputy turns a blind eye, not out of fear, but out of loyalty to something he no longer questions. You don’t rise in the backwaters by being honest. You rise by knowing when to stay quiet and who to bleed for.
There are no clean slates here. Just paths marked in sweat, smoke, and sacrifice. This is a place for the broken, the hunted, and the damned. Maybe you came to find peace. Maybe you came to run. The town does not care. It already knows who you are.
So ask yourself:
What brought you to the Backwaters?
And how long before the swamp makes you part of it?
The water waits. It always does.
