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log: looking for carver in the woods
Who: Scooby Gang (plz tag this post for me if you join in ty i love u)
What: looking for Carver
Where: woods
When: fuzzy recently
Warnings/Rating: spoopy
There's a helpful old man who hangs out near the coffee shop that loudly proclaims he saw the "tall and serious man" from the Catholic church run off that away. He points his old, wrinkly finger towards the southern woods that stretch like walls across the backdrop of the town. The forest seems to grow if you look at it too long, as if to say that anyone who steps inside will be lost forever and there's no rhyme or reason to it. The trees are the teeth, the forest is the monster and Carver ran in as a willing participant of a midnight snack the night before.
As the gang ventures deeper, the world gets darker. It's not natural. The sun hasn't quite set yet and under normal circumstances, there should be a rosy light filtering through the needles and leaves of the trees overhead. No, this is bottled midnight that only grows darker the more the gang wanders. Blueish purple like a bruise. Summertime orbs of firefly light buzzing cutting soft lines through the darkness. Frogs, crickets, owls. Chatter. That's the worst part about ghosts by far. They don't scream right away most of the time. It's a slow build, like a good song. They chat with each other, they break tree branches, they wait until your blood turns cold and then HOOWWLL, SCREAM, BOO!
Not yet. That's for later.
Carver, bless his heart, left a trail of petals. They're beautiful and shriveled like melted glass. Green, yellow, pink, blue. They glisten under the wandering of light orbs and lead the gang to a warm fire up ahead. A campfire. Smartly dressed boy scouts from another era, shouting their campfire songs raucously as they roast marshmallows. They give the gang a bad feeling because sometimes one of the boys turns and looks at them with murder eyes, smiles and then goes back to singing.
Across from him is Carver. He's slumped over, dirty, hair in his face. He is not singing along.
What: looking for Carver
Where: woods
When: fuzzy recently
Warnings/Rating: spoopy
There's a helpful old man who hangs out near the coffee shop that loudly proclaims he saw the "tall and serious man" from the Catholic church run off that away. He points his old, wrinkly finger towards the southern woods that stretch like walls across the backdrop of the town. The forest seems to grow if you look at it too long, as if to say that anyone who steps inside will be lost forever and there's no rhyme or reason to it. The trees are the teeth, the forest is the monster and Carver ran in as a willing participant of a midnight snack the night before.
As the gang ventures deeper, the world gets darker. It's not natural. The sun hasn't quite set yet and under normal circumstances, there should be a rosy light filtering through the needles and leaves of the trees overhead. No, this is bottled midnight that only grows darker the more the gang wanders. Blueish purple like a bruise. Summertime orbs of firefly light buzzing cutting soft lines through the darkness. Frogs, crickets, owls. Chatter. That's the worst part about ghosts by far. They don't scream right away most of the time. It's a slow build, like a good song. They chat with each other, they break tree branches, they wait until your blood turns cold and then HOOWWLL, SCREAM, BOO!
Not yet. That's for later.
Carver, bless his heart, left a trail of petals. They're beautiful and shriveled like melted glass. Green, yellow, pink, blue. They glisten under the wandering of light orbs and lead the gang to a warm fire up ahead. A campfire. Smartly dressed boy scouts from another era, shouting their campfire songs raucously as they roast marshmallows. They give the gang a bad feeling because sometimes one of the boys turns and looks at them with murder eyes, smiles and then goes back to singing.
Across from him is Carver. He's slumped over, dirty, hair in his face. He is not singing along.