#mistystart

The shepherd mix, Delilah, loped along beside Knox, her tongue lolling out of her mouth happily as her feet crunched into the snow. His own hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his coat, head bowed while his thoughts raced. Considering everything that had happened lately, it probably wasn't a good idea to be walking around so distracted at night, but, well. Knox hadn't been known recently for his good choices.

It was about that time that Delilah's enthusiastic gait came to a sudden halt. Her head lifted, ears forward and alert. Knox stopped a half second later, taking in the dog's stiff body language that screamed THREAT.

Knox was immediately on alert, his fingers gone pale as they tightened around the leash. He should have known better than to be without anything but his useless pocketknife and a compact mirror, but there was that pesky bad choices thing again.

A figure suddenly cut an imposing silhouette against the night and Delilah let out a low rumble in the back of her throat. She also liked to growl at leaves through the window as they blew across the yard, but that was neither here nor there.

The figure shifted, the orangey fluorescent glow illuminated their face and Knox deflated on a breath. "You keep skulking around at night like that and Delilah's gonna think it's open season."

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓:​​ for whatever reason, your muse is on the front steps of abilene's house!

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: the scariest place on earth (the pryor mansion)

Abilene paced the living room, her arms folded tightly across her chest as though she could hold herself together if she squeezed hard enough. The old grandfather clock in the corner ticked steadily, each second only deepening the quiet of her home. The lamp by the window cast a soft golden light, illuminating the worn floral couch and the faint layer of dust on the bookshelf. It all looked the same as always, but to Abilene, the room felt foreign tonight. Unsettled. Wrong.

She had essentially been put on house arrest by her parents, who deemed it unacceptable for her to be out at night and lately, they were starting to peel her back indoors before the sun even set. She felt like she was beginning to experience some sort of cabin fever. Ever since her brother had left, it felt like the house just grew larger and larger - like it was becoming some sort of maze.

She needed out.

Abilene just needed to see a face - speak a word to somebody that didn't end in prayer. It was late. Late enough that her parents would be in bed, so she edged towards the front door, pulling it open slowly - hoping that the faint creaking wouldn't be enough to wake her parents.

When she glanced outside, she almost jumped back when she saw another person at the other side of the door (okay miss Taylor Swift). "Oh," she gasped. "You shouldn't be here," she stated, closing the door behind her.

"What are you doing here, actually?"

an open starter

where: misti's gift shoppe

Rosie was on the hunt for yarn. Red, in particular, but any color would do in a pinch.

For what purpose? one might ask. Picking up a hobby, like crocheting or another type of crafting? Of course not. Rosie, currently deep in the town's latest mystery, was setting up a conspiracy board in the archives of the museum. She needed the yarn to connect the pictures that she'd already had printed, the stack of them currently sitting in a neat pile next to the other materials she'd been able to gather, tucked unassumingly in between boxes of artifacts.

Tacks, tape, sticky notes, et cetera. It was a whole production, something she'd been devoting much of the past 48 hours to. And it was a relief, truly, that clarity was on the horizon.

Details were starting to get jumbled in her mind - who had said what, where, and when. Theories that had been brainstormed and then discarded when evidence came to light. Theories that were still very much in play. With an almost nonstop investigation underway, it wasn't surprising that before long she would run out of pages in her notebook. So the sooner she got organized, the better.

Maybe seeing everything laid out in front of her would unlock something, bring back some memory she'd banished or offer her a moment of clarity about a clue she'd missed.

But first, yarn. And before that...

"Oh!" she took a few steps back, caught off guard by the presence of a familiar face. She'd waltzed right into the gift shop only to narrowly avoid a collision, and now she was suffering the consequences of being overeager. "Sorry 'bout that. I wasn't expectin' - I mean, I've never seen anyone come in here before."

Buck stood in the baking aisle of Wynn Pixie Grocery, staring up at the shelf like it had personally offended him. The familiar blue-and-white bag of flour his grandma swore by was just out of reach, sitting on the top shelf like some kind of cruel joke. His shoulder throbbed with the reminder that stretching wasn’t exactly an option. He shifted on his feet, gritting his teeth. Asking for help wasn’t exactly his style, never had been, but if he went home empty-handed, Grandma was gonna give him that disappointed look, the one that made him feel about six inches tall. No way was he dealing with that on top of everything else. He glanced around the aisle, weighing his options. Maybe he could use a broom handle to knock it down or - hell, no. That’d just end with a bigger mess. With a sigh that felt like it weighed as much as the whole damn store, Buck leaned out of the aisle and spotted the first person walking by. “Hey,” he called, trying to keep his tone casual, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of his week. “You mind givin’ me a hand? That flour up there -” He jabbed his thumb toward the offending bag. “- ain’t exactly playin’ fair with me today.”

Bobby Hugh was the least clumsy when serving at Tastee's diner. He grew up in this space after all. He could bus tables blindfolded if he tried it. He would never try it...the new management would murder him. He was lucky enough they let him stay on staff after his Uncle sold the diner. It was crazy how much his responsibilities in the place grew after it stopped being something he could inherit.

It was late...well...late for Misty Mountain. The sun was beginning to set and most of the tables in the place were empty. Bobby Hugh was refilling the salt and pepper shakers behind the bar, classic busy work at a time like this. He barely noticed the human standing in front of him waiting for assistance. When he looked up, he flashed on his classic customer service smile. "And how can I help you?" He asked, a mix of sarcasm and glee resonating on his last word.

He liked to believe people saw a different Bobby Hugh at Tastee's. One who had his shit together. After all...one of his biggest dreams was to buy this place back one day. Likely story.

Knox was decidedly not in the Flurry Festival spirit. In fact, as he looked around at the people openly laughing, in various stages of celebration, it frustrated him.

People died. People they knew.

Callousness hardened him against them, found him meandering in circles further and further away from the Nativity scene he'd been volunteered to set up before the first performance later tonight. Last year, he would have been the first one there, obediently staging, filling the manger with hay, and tying down the giant cross that loomed over them all like a bad omen.

But of course he'd been spotted, roped in by Mrs. Danbury's lipstick-smeared toothy smile, and led back to the very place he couldn't seem to get away from.

So now he stood, hands on his hips, looking down at the cross laid out before him. For a moment, he imagined what it might feel like to destroy it, to watch it crack under his knuckles. It was such a violent, unexpected thought that he had to physically take a step back. And then another.

And then he was backing up right into another body. Immediately he turned, cheeks ruddy with embarrassment, to apologize. "Pardon," he said, dipping his head. When he looked up again, he'd slipped back into his well-worn mask, a boyish, if not sheepish, grin curling at the corners of his mouth. "Hey, actually, y'think you could help me with somethin' real quick?"

August couldn't say he was particularly surprised that the Festival seemed to be proceeding the same as it had any other year. Most people seemed far too willing to pretend nothing was happening if it wasn't right in front of their face, like ignoring it would make it go away. But there was only so much ignoring that could be done and the twinkling lights and Christmas carols couldn't quite drown out the pervasive whispers, all of them talking circles about the same damn thing. As for August, he couldn't give two flying fucks about Baylor Dawson — he doubted Baylor even knew his name — but that didn't mean there was nothing to be learned about the town's broader situation through the good ol' fashioned rumor mill. He'd more or less perfected the art of eavesdropping by now. It wasn't so hard when more often than not, he tended to be one of those things people liked to ignore in the hopes it would go away. But he knew the best way to be unassuming was to just look like you were so absorbed in something else, you couldn't possibly be paying attention to anything around you. And that was how August ended up at a picnic table not too far off the main thoroughfare, making mental notes of the snippets of conversation he heard go by as he focused very hard on the stark black ink he was stabbing into the sickly yellow skin of a lemon he'd nicked from a booth where someone'd been making wassail on the other side of the Festival's setup. He figured it was only a matter of time before someone actually took notice of him, considering he spent his whole life being either invisible or an eyesore with very little in between, and sure enough, he was about halfway through the intricate snowflake he was freehanding when the familiar chill ran down his spine. It was a cold that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with being watched. He didn't react outwardly, instead trying to assess for a second. Alive, he decided. Those kinds of stares always felt heavier. "I can do you too, if you want," he called, a casual acknowledgement that he was just as aware of them as they were of him. He finished the line he was working on before looking up, the quirk of his eyebrow almost a challenge. "I got fresh needles."

Buck stood near one of the wooden vendor stalls at the edge of the town square, his breath visible in the cold air as he wrapped his hands around a cup of hot chocolate. The twinkling fairy lights strung overhead cast a warm glow on the snow-dusted cobblestones, and the sound of laughter and carols filled the air. Misty Mountain felt alive this time of year, buzzing with the chatter of tourists and the sharp scent of cinnamon and pine. He took a careful sip, wishing more than anything that this cup had a splash of coffee in it. Or maybe even a little whiskey. His shoulders tensed as he tried to dodge a group of wide-eyed families wandering with cameras in hand. Something about the crowds, the bright lights, and the constant movement made his stomach twist. He didn’t know why he felt so anxious, but the unfamiliar faces and wandering footsteps weren’t helping. Buck just exhaled, steam curling from his cup into the cold air. He stared down at the dark liquid, letting himself get lost in its warmth. His nerves felt thin, stretched tight, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was just the stress of the season or maybe it was the constant buzz of people moving through his small town. "Maybe they really should'a cancelled the damn thing this year, huh? Can't imagine Buck's Mama is havin' much fun watchin' all the hubbub from her window." He shrugged off the shiver that came with saying it out loud. Maybe he was a hypocrite, but Buck couldn't help but think of Bailey - he didn't know how anyone else would rid themselves of the thought. They'd played together. They'd gotten drinks only a few nights before. Not like Bailey'd ever been the type to break up a party; he'd probably hate knowing that they cancelled somethin' like this in his honor. But it was strange... watchin' people laugh and be merry while he was cooped up in Honeycutt. "Guess there ain't nothin' more Christmas than pretendin' everythin' is fine, though."