Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at Laveau, they say the man with the hard, hungry eyes left a red handprint burning across the cheek of the woman in the tattered dress—her spit sharp as a bayou snake’s strike, defiance flickering beneath swelling bruises. She shook, torn between broken promises and venomous truths, a ghost in the sultry shadow of the docks where the fog clings like sin. ░▒
▒░ But that’s just the surface. Over at Conjure, in the damp bones of that deserted building, a cold smile cut through the haze as a man sifted through scattered papers, muttering about sloppy work—ghosts of drugged meals and whispered threats swirling heavy, the fog creeping deeper into every corner of this town’s restless soul. ░▒
░▒░ Father Delacroix at the old church heard the rumors too—his gaze drifted uneasy toward the door, knowing all too well the marks carved beneath skin and shadow. ░▒
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