Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ They say down at the docks, the pale man with restless hands argued sharp about skin-on-skin rules before he settled, bare but braced, letting the medic’s needle bite deep—his eyes flickering with grudging fire as murky truths spilled: liver rot, and worse, the Clap gnawing slow. A tray clattered, and breath caught like thick bayou fog. ░▒
▒░ And that heat wasn’t alone—whispers curl through the Den, where shadows stretch longer, and the fog thickens with each passing night. Rumor’s fingers trace strange lights flickering beneath the water, voices chanting in tongues no soul sane would speak, as if the Serpent’s veil is slipping, coiling tighter around those who dare to watch. ░▒
░▒░ Father Delacroix’s gaze lingers on cracked stained glass, silent but heavy, as if he knows what festers beneath Laveau’s skin—does he pray or wait? ░▒
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