#script in progress...

Samael was sitting on a tombstone in a nearby cemetery, perched oddly, holding a sketchbook and muttering to himself, as if having a conversation.

Samael pushed his sketchbook in a higher branch than the one he sat on, maneuvering to hang upside down. "Oh yeah? You could get arrested for trespassing, you know. You actually, really do not belong here. Not even a little. Good try, though!" It laughed.

"It's all 'were you followed' until you slip up, huh? Oh but don't worry! I won't tell the groundskeeper." Even though he already knew, being that it was the Groundskeeper.

"Jones! There he is! Tell me - you're not smart, you're not a scientist, or a doctor, or even a full time employee anywhere! What happened? Where did it all go wrong?"

It looms over Illinois, but it doesn't mean to threaten. He just caught him at the studio, and wanted to talk.

Samael can't help but laugh. One of the most overworked men he's ever cast his gaze on, and he thinks that it has it rough?

"Oh, you're funny. Very funny." He takes down his boards, shoving papers into binders that are falling apart. "You must be hear for that deal with the studio, hm? How's that going?" Samael already knows.

Now he’s back to work, at least the more dangerous aspects of it. A cabin, built out remotely somewhere. Deep in the woods, and apparently laden with trinkets from a god. How could he not go?

Outside the cabin, unsure of who or what is in there anymore, Illinois begins to climb. Tucking his cane under his arm, he begins digging his feet into the brick of the walls. Pulling himself up a few at a time 

@worldsbestadventurer

Illinoise scaled the cabin, no doubt wishing to intrude upon the Screenwriter and Scribe.

Samael scoffed, rolling his eyes. Scribe's narrations were not frequent in the cabin, which made it a great alarm. Good enough, at least. Samael still wasn't happy about having his consciousness split in twain like some stereotypical, poorly written DID portrayal. But that was life, now.

He pulled himself away from his keyboard, stretching his back and cracking his knuckles as he headed downstairs, a little giddy about scaring off some pathetic mortal. There was always a few people wanting to investigate during hikes, a highlight besides writing his scripts and seeing Apollo.

The source hadn't specified much, only that there was a cryptid that resided here known as "The Scribe". An interesting title, of course, but it didn't give much information about the creature's identity or its intentions. At most, it hinted at a potential profession, and Finn doubted that this mysterious creature had a nine to five job.

Still... that was why Finn was involved. To investigate. They walked up to the door of the cabin, knocking on the old wood and enthusiastically waiting for a response.

- @lost-in-gardener

Finn Gardener knocked at the door.

Who the fuck is that?

The Scribe has a visitor. It was meant to meet today.

I love it when you don't tell me anything useful. No really, keep doing it.

The Scribe descended the stairs, blood dripping from its eyes and staining it's sleeves as it crawled, like an animal.

It answers the door with delicacy, its claws hard to use in such a way, but it manages.

Finn is greeted by the sight of a monster, 8 feet tall, standing. It was crouched before the door, tail curled around it neatly. It was blindfolded, covered in mushrooms, even on its lone horn.

"WAAaaAaAaH!"

That's all that's heard before the heavy thud on the ground, accompanied by the sound of bullets hitting the floor.

"Uggghh... what the..."

Wilford looks up, rubbing the side of his face that'd hit the ground. Where was he? This place didn't exactly look familiar. A bit too dark for his taste.

"Uhm... hello?"

-@wilfywarfy

Two glowing, yellow eyes peered down at the intruder, pinpricks of light in the consuming darkness.

"Wilford Warfstache... Intruding again... Well, that's all right. I had a feeling we would meet." The watcher laughed, flicking on a lighter.

His grin extended artificially, carved into his face and stitched back together. Mushrooms grew off of his face and head, and the strands of hair falling in front of his face cast an eerie shadow on his face.

He made his way to the light switch, flicking it on. The dim light flickered to life, sputtering, as if suffocating in the heavy, dust filled air.

Now his long trench coat could be seen, as well as a horn, sticking out of the side of his head. He peered back over nose-pincher spectacles.

I am the watcher now I watch for all of time!"

In the 1920s, films were just taking off, and motion pictures were the place to be for young Mr. Samael Scriven. His first day as a writer, he was gifted a Typewriter from an uncle...

But he didn't have family, and what he was writing was coming true. He pulled the strings, now.