Kevin
The trails were beaten into shape but almost left untouched. They almost looked half-forgotten- the way it appeared. Left to time and for the thicket to reclaim in its baleful, crooked ways. Crooked, that was a way to describe this heart of Appalachia. Ancient, that was another way. Something older than every living spirit that walked this part of the earth. He had seen many timberlands- but nothing compared to this neck. Its spirit was deeper than its roots, and it had a heartbeat. It sang, in its mysterious ways, spreading slowly with her voice through the melody of the thrush and warblers- the ones that sang their praises to the earth above. It called through the sound of the wind filtering through the leaves, swaying wisened creaking branches aplenty, the will of her voice, her call. It shook through the sound of fearful rabbits that scuttled in the scrub, begging for some fearsome predator to make chase. 

That he did already, and he held the proof of it in his fingers, its skull. It was a complex skill to learn: how to make bloody bone shine as white as the pearls on a rich woman's satchel, especially of an animal so freshly dead. It was not wrought by cruelty or malice, but rather the unwavering opposite- Reverence, adulation, and a certain kind of hunger. The kind that sought familiarity. Understanding is the key, and it is the key to many crucial things in life; it's how all things learn to thrive. It was how a body learned to get rid of disease, how doctors learned how to make medicine, and how poets learned to write such the sad ways of a broken spirit. Though he was no doctor, and he was certainly no poet, much more of a disease if any of the three at all, most especially in his sorry state. A criminal, almost the worst kind. He didn't mean to be, not entirely, but that is now what he was. 

There was something about these forests he didn't understand here as a child that he knew well now. Something he knew intimately. The forest is poisoned. Evidence wa

S all around, but only if you look for the source. It was like the fumes of coal, which sank deep in the lungs like a sapling's roots, feeding off the flesh and blackening the pustules. It all came from the same source- those quarries. It wasn't the only wildwood made into this way; he knew it from the Cross Timbers, where his second residence resided. It cried just the same, like a sniveling babe, the thought of it being able to protect itself from a pick-wielding reaper, just some strange distant dream of a bereaved mother. Being where this sickness was, here in this dark, bleeding heart of the new world, it wasn't the same. It couldn't be. He didn't know why yet, but being a man of understanding, he would search for that answer, and soon he would know it. Intimately.

Until then, he listened to the wind, the thrush, the warblers, and critters as he walked hard on an uphill battle- the hills themselves. It was where he looked down that path again, nearly overgrown, the start of his drifting imagination. Then, he returned to the world through the sound of a snort. His broad, bright eyes became startled into silence- his eyelids relaxing just as much as they tensed as he turned his head.

*That Donkey. *

Lorcan didn't know why it was following him, but it was. It was old—its face whitened from years of being alive in that coal town. It wasn't worth anything, so the old woman who had given him those directions had also offered it up as some reward, not that it was any. It was an old donkey, an old donkey in a scarf. 

"Gertrude."

Lorcan started, tossing the skull into the bushes. It was where it belonged there. 

"You're bein'... *Disruptive...*"

Gertrude didn't respond, as most donkeys did not respond. She only walked, always just a few feet behind him. The clopping of its tiny hooves began digging in his ear as his perfectly procured envisionment crumbled. She snorted again. Lorcan twitched, a movement shooting up from the base of his spine to his fingertips. He took in a deep breath, a sharp one. It had no reason to keep following him around, no reason at all. It was a spiteful creature, this one. A spiteful creature that wore a bandana like a neckerchief. 

"Stop it, Gertrude..."

He said, one more time, one final warning. There was a brief moment of silence, during which he could hear the world again, and then there it was again.

"GURL- I'm makin' you a pelt-"

 He twisted his spine, grasping at the butt of Katie that stuck out from his saggy bag. After a brief struggle, he grasped the fresh cherry varnish and ripped it free. He held the rifle in his hands, beautiful and new as new could be, untouched by the trials of war. A gun he couldn't have possibly afforded on his own, but still a rifle he had, metal so fine it was dark- almost black, but still sheened in the light that filtered in the trees that covered the two individuals. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, looking through only his dominant eye as he began positioning the sights with his hands. He stopped before he could even focus as if having some moment of clarity. He looked at her with brows that raised only enough to expose the silvery whites of his pupil just clearly enough be

Fore he turned to look at the trees, the sticks. He lowered the rifle slowly, letting it droop to his hip. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Gertrude did nothing the entire time. She only looked at him, her tail swaying and flicking away anything unsavory that buzzed. He looked back at her, his lopsided expression warping his facial structure before he sighed again, though this time, it was more in the way of relief, the sound someone makes when a heavy weight is lifted off their shoulders.

"Y'know...! You sure picked some awful company to stick around, Gert- I'm sorry for ya."

He reached out to the catatonic donkey, patting her shoulder and feeling her coarse, unseemly fur. It wouldn't make too much of a good pelt either way. He patted her once, twice, and then three times. Then it was over. 

"Sorry 'bout that fuss old gal, don't mean it too personal. More used to shootin' things with all of the fur- y'know-? It comes with the position n' all of that."

She blinked at him, stepping a little closer in her stilty hooves. Her eyes looked up into his, and for a moment, he thought maybe she understood him... And she snorted. His face wrinkled. He took it back, and that was clear enough to the donkey if a donkey was capable of seeing or caring.

"..You act tough, but you ain't for the streets, Gertrude-"

So their journey continued, and kindly enough, it was the last time the donkey had snorted. She gave him his chance to listen in to the sounds on that downslope of the ridge. Listening to the song while filtering in the air through blackened pustules. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, his flat lips curled up at the corners, waiting for it, searching for it. But it wasn't there. His expression fell, looking out in the foliage of this long forgotten visage. One, thing was certain, and the fact of it breathed life into that chest even in its absence, and even during the most turmoiled times.

*He was home.*

.
.
.

The timber grew sparse, and it sickened him somewhere deep inside. His brows seemed to lower with each step further he took in those fields and farmland, but only just enough the shade covered his sensitive eyes more than the brim of his floppy leather hat could. He looked at the village in the distance and then at that big house just on the bend. It sat atop the hill like a throne, like it ruled the land- the ranch lands. He then looked over the bridge at the thick gorge below, but it was more of a river than a gorge, geographically. A big river. Gertrude was being real skittish now. The whites of her eyes glinted as they neared it. She hated this, and it was the first thing she hated so far, much more than that rabbit hootin' and hollerin'. It could be that short railing, or it could be the odd spider web-like structure. It was built up oddly- like some trap where something hiding would spring out and stick its fangs in your soft spots. Traps were something he liked- but not the idea of this one so much. 

He halted momentarily, looking to the side and then back at her. He grasped the dangling lead dragging in the dirt the entire time and pulled her softly. She didn't budge. He pulled her harder. Still nothing. He scratched his head, thinking of how to solve this problem before he inched closer to her. He had places to be and things to do, and he didn't have time for this. She began shifting away from him, her critical thinking skills excellent enough to be capable. He knelt, ducking his head under her pot belly as his calloused fingers grasped her scrawnier limbs. She started braying, struggling against him, but there wasn't a use for it. He used his legs to lift her, all her hundreds of pounds. He wheezed as he did, not expecting such a great weight from a donkey whose shoulders were below his hips, but he persevered. He began walking- no- speeding across the bridge. Each clack of his thick, stubby boot heel caused Gertrude to fidget and Lorcan to whisper

Various cutthroat expletives up at her. She stared out at the river, and she screamed. He grimaced at the sound as the weight of her body made him feel weaker and weaker by the moment. It was a long bridge that felt like it dragged out and stretched itself the closer he came to the finish line—no bridge needed to be this long- no bridge, no river. 

The donkey had given up braying, hyperventilating instead at the end as they neared the end of their fast-paced, half-dangerous trek over that architectural mess of a bridge. Lorcan half collapsed on the ground, bowing forward and releasing a now much happier donkey. She clambered over him, her knee hitting his head softly as he sat dazed, unmoved. He held his forehead, at least before the coughing started, and it was surely an ugly sound. He covered his mouth, his shoulders and head shrinking into his oversized coat. He slipped around on the dirt, catching his breath and controlling himself before he stood up again. Panting, wiping the mix of sweat and donkey hairs off the nape of his neck. His eyes peered around, seeing that not much people were around at such an early hour (much to early for him on a regular day), he wore a face much looser until he peered at his hand after with some level of hesitance, before looking up and away. His brows lowered, and he wiped his hand off on his pant leg. He readjusted himself, clearing his clogged throat and fixing his hat. He looked around for Gertrude, now seeing her again, on that dirt path called a road, staring at him with black eyes emptiness.

With the same expression as before—if not more impassioned—he threw his hands up, raising his voice.
"What? Whatchu want-?"

She turned around after, walking away and along the curved road, but that was her own choice, unshaken by the words of those around her. He nodded, satisfied and vindicated that he told that neckerchief-wearing donkey off into being her own woman- at least for the moment.

*Briar Ridge*

He let himself get the

Full taste now that he was close enough by proxy of greedy, enlivened eyes that went over everything there was to possibly give way of a glimpse. His feet carried him along the beaten and worn-in trail with a distinct softness more akin to pads on moss than heels in cobbly, bumpy ground. The loudest thing now was Gertrude's black shoes clobbering pebbles at this hour. It was soon sunset, and after a long day of traveling Lorcan was wide awake. 

Never skipping a beat, he stalked down the middle of the road, expecting the same thing he had assumed it would all before finding his silvery whites staring at the towns stately centerpiece. An oak tree. Interesting place for one, right in the middle of it all. It looked like it didn't belong there, even for as long as it stood it should be the opposite. He walked closer to it, stepping over unearthed roots and between benches to knock at the bark with the back of his knuckles. He squinted, before he moved on to the next thing. His hand brushed the tops of the benches, before turning to face the board in front of it.
Dorothy
**TW/CW: Mentions and brief descriptions of killing and dressing a rabbit for meat (I tried to be vague I swear, please let me know if you'd rather I just cut it out of the response as I can easily just edit it out)**

The day had gone as smoothly as one could hope for a week before certain chaos. He had been counting the days as was everyone else who was in the know, counting each time the moon rose in the night and seeing first hand how close it was getting to being full. Five days, that was all they had left to prepare. Like most Riley could feel his feet grow lighter and ears more sensitive with anticipation, but that didn't stop him from doing his daily chores on him and his Granny's little homestead. It was tiny compared to some other residents, with an open yard out back facing the forest and a small, patchwork house claiming the land as the Sutton's. He felt real grateful none of his rabbits or chickens were casualties as of yet, but part of him wished it was them instead of the beasts favorite chew toy who just so happened to also be his boyfriend. That strawberry blonde had stayed the night again and left in the early afternoon, leaving Riley to tend to his rabbits as if nothing was amiss. They slept in late, a little treat before all hell broke loose. He fed the chickens, collected his hen's eggs with care, and gave three of his rabbits their final rites.

The three he chose - Pumpkin, Tulip III, and Dashing - weren't dying of old age but of his own hand, to feed the town and his little family. He didn't have any treats to give them but still sang, sitting outside of their pen with a five string banjo and strumming a simple melody. He improvised most of it, occasionally fumbling before expressing his frustration in low hisses and groans. This lasted for about an hour before it was time, Riley standing to collect his rabbits. He was already dressed in an apron while a carving knife rested on the porch behind him.

Pumpkin was first, Riley grabbing ahold of the auburn rabbit and cradling it in his arms while he walked over to the rabbit wringer. The next few steps went smoothly, a silent and swift death for Pumpkin before hoisting her up by her back legs on a tree near the house, leaving her to lifelessly hang while Riley got to work with the dressing. He repeated this process with the other two, humming to himself as he did so before grabbing the remaining cuts of meat and heading inside to wet age what was left. Heading back outside Riley took to a pump nearby, washing off his hands further before grabbing a shovel leaning against the house to bury the remains near the garden, hoping and praying to nobody in particular that it would act as decent fertilizer when the time came.

The rest of the day was spent running errands in town, his Gran giving him a list of things to pick up from the store after Riley insisted that she take the day off. After a bit of playful banter back and forth with Granny B teasing him by reminding him not to steal anything (despite it being over a year since he did such a thing) and Riley claiming that his grandmother would most likely bring home actual flowers rather than flour due to her failing eyesight, she relented, ending their verbal sparring match with a kiss on the cheek and a demand to be back before dark. Riley, of course, replied with sarcasm, declaring that he couldn't make any promises before heading out, shouting at her from the porch to not break a hip while he was gone. Grabbing a small hand-drawn cart pressed against the home his grandmother echoed his words as loud as she could, exclaiming *"No promises!"* From inside before he finally took his leave.

The sun was lowering itself below the hills by the time Riley left the general store with a bag of flour, some more salt, sugar, and other basics in tow, plopping them all in the wooden cart he parked outside.

Moving through town square on his way home however there was a most peculiar sight, some guy he doesn't recognize with skin pale enough to let Riley believe the man saw a ghost not too long ago. However, a long brimmed hat and worse for wear coat covered almost everything else. What most piqued his interest though was the donkey nearby, leading Riley to conclude that this guy was a wanderer of some sort. He knew almost everyone in this little holler, whether it be from his childhood antics to more recent endeavors selling eggs and meat, so it was only natural for him to want to investigate, maybe even give the odd man a warm welcome - he sure looked like he needed one.

Strolling up to the stranger and making no effort to be quiet along the way Riley watched as he moved from the tree in town square to the notice board nearby. Given the rifle on his person though Riley tried to stay a safe distance away, just in case the guy got startled easy. Setting the handle of his cart down with a clang Riley tilted his head and put a hand on his hip, raising an eyebrow with a lopsided smirk with a sort of playful curiosity. "Lookin' for a job or something?" Riley began, his smile widening to the point it made his eyes crinkle if Lorcan were to turn and look. "I can assure you that tree you just knocked on isn't hiring, and I doubt anyone's home either way." Riley was rid of his apron, now only dressed in a simple white button up shirt with light brown suspenders and repeatedly repaired dark brown pants.

He wore an undone burgundy wool flannel over it all, one that also seemed well loved after years of wear and tear. Ginger hair was held up in a messy bun, a bun that was starting to come undone after being worn all day. Possibly the most jarring feature was two scars jutting across the right side of his face, both raised and slightly darker than the skin surrounding it. His scar in combination with a dusting of red freckles over his whole body and scruffy stubble led to a crowded yet still youthful face, albeit also with the fatigue most people in town wore nowadays.
Kevin
He had heard the folks moving around behind him, taking their looks. No long looks- after all, Briar Ridge had always had its fair share of 'fresh meat' drifting into town. All except the one, at least. Lorcan didn't notice- not yet. He was too busy reading all the flavors of penmanship on the board. The delicate ink that marked a studied hand, the work of a typewriter, the blocky metal-work talk, and some poetry about God that he had no sufferance to understand. The thing that mostly got him to lean and take a peep closer was that dainty, colorful little poster. A smile nearly could have curled on his lips, but there were much greater things weighing on his mind to allow it, then. 

He slowly looked down at the donkey drifting its way next to him, chewing on the grass in the little patch of nature that marked the root of the town. She wasn't helping much, either. He shook his head at her, interrupting again. What caught him in the headlights was the sound of that silvery jangle of the farmer's cart full of the days staples. If he had long ears, they would surely have perked up to the air as quickly as his neck. He turned as Riley spoke, a hand finding a way to the hip that twisted his body around. 

"H'Why? You offerin' for some protection?"

He cocked his head, his thumb gesturing to the one he frankly struggled reading the most. He looked the man up and down- younger and him, not by awful much, but still enough for anyone who cared much for that kind of thing to point it out. Lorcan had to tilt his head back, flicking at the floppy part of his leather hat so his eyes could make out the more important details. The first thing was obvious- the scars. Something gnarled and fierce got to the feller for true. His eyes lingered, but only until he talked about the tree. 

He looked back at it before tilting his hat back and returning his attention with a waving hand. Now he smirked, tilting his hat back to show his sensitive eyes, possibly paler than his own skin, which

Is a large part of why he had the wide brim to shield them.

"Knockin' on wood, you know. It means good luck. Oaks like this' un are sacred, wise old trees."

He seemed avidly ready to bounce to the next thought- even in spite of his brief moment of spirituality- he was trying to piece together what exactly this man was. He was no mind reader- but he liked to try. Messy, truly long ginger locks tied up in that bun, that scruff that struggled to grow. He knew the ill- maybe just a few more years. He didn't think much of Katie as she swung on his shoulder, more like an appendage than a weapon. He stepped closer with a somewhat casual demure as he leaned against the notice board- as casual as could be forced after the past week's events. 

"*You believe God has blessed this little town, stranger?*"

He had forgotten about the donkey for the moment, but he'd get there soon enough as she continued her grazing while wearing her red neckerchief.
Dorothy
Riley was certainly glad to be received positively, a little quip of the stranger's own soothing any apprehension he may have had deep down. The notice board, like always, was filled to the brim with all manner of advertisements and declarations. Some people just put up little pieces of art, mainly little kids who wanted to show it off to the whole town or didn't get the attention they wanted back home. Sadly there wasn't any examples up right now but Riley recalled doing the same - or at least something similar - as a young child, shortly after his brother vanished.

Shaking childish scribbles of a *"Wild man"* Out of his head Riley was quick to return to the matter at hand, listening in to why the stranger was knocking on the tree in the first place. It was easy to notice his ghostly pale eyes, the younger lad being unable to stop himself from wondering why they were that way. He'd heard of certain conditions that reduced pigment in the skin so maybe it was that? Whatever it was though it most certainly wasn't any of his business, even if he'd never seen eyes so pale. Curious as ever Riley grabbed his little cart again and approached the board, meeting the stranger in the middle and taking a gander of his own at the notice board.

"I don't really know how old this tree *Is* To be honest, prolly been here since the town was founded but I bet I was told at one point and I've just forgotten now. I guess some extra luck is good, especially now." Riley remarked, his eyes still scanning the notice board while a free hand began rubbing his chin absentmindedly, feeling the rough texture of his stubble. He tried not to pay the donkey much mind but he could only hope she was friendly and wouldn't kick him into oblivion.

*"You believe God has blessed this little town, stranger?"*
Riley was reading a birthday invite when the taller man before him spoke up, causing him to freeze in place for a moment.

For some reason that felt like a hard question to answer even if he knew what he wanted to say. After straightening out again and a couple moments of thought Riley decided to just start talking, letting out an uncertain hum to start it off. "Eh... I don't know. I mean, I do know what I *Think* But... I still don't know. I'm not a man of faith myself so I doubt a nonexistent god could bless a town but metaphorically I would reckon that the gods, spirits, or whatever else is out there are placing bets instead." During this first part Riley sort of avoided eye contact, looking down at his hands as they gestured while he spoke, waving his hand dismissively toward the sky when addressing the topic of God. "We certainly aren't the most lucky but we've stuck together despite it all so I suppose there's a blessing to be found in that." Riley continued, concluding his thought with a slight shrug while finally looking up into the man's sensitive eyes.

Shortly after he finished his thought Riley stuck out a hand, offering another smile while he changed the subject, "I suppose introductions are in order though. My name's Riley, born and bread in this holler so if you need further directions I'm your guy. Do you and your donkey friend have names or am I just gonna be referring to you as *"Dude with a hat"* And *"Old donkey"* This whole time?"