Ravenshook Cliffs compelled to write with aching fearful hands

buck did what he could to live his life as comfortable as possible. he didn't see a reason not to, really; what point was there in making things purposefully difficult on himself? while it was a stretch to assume that spending his time outside of the swamp was really a challenge, he knew his tastes well enough. though there had always been a peculiar tick inside of him – one that thirsted for travel – he would always be drawn back to the humming of crickets and the thick muck of the morass. once a swamp boy, always a swamp boy.

with a wide – daft – grin on his bearish face, buckshot dipped his head toward the other man and scuttled forward a few feet. he was surprisingly light on his toes for the girth that he carried. regardless, the cajun seemed pleased enough with the bare minimum conversation that had taken place. he didn't think he would have had much in common with the fellow, and whether or not that assumption was true was not to be explored.

“ah thank ya foh ya help,” buckshot offered in a voice that was louder than it needed to be. “y'all take care, naw.” and just as soon as he had appeared, the scoundrel seemed to vanish from sight. there was no need for him to turn back; the sweet melody of the fen lured him on.