[h2][b][i][color=008000][center]In This Fine Town Of Arkham[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h2]
[h3][b][i][color=008000][center]A Night At Wilde Hall[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h3]
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[center][img]https://s3.eu-central-1.wasabisys.com/devonilx7/2020/04/forest_path_dark_150398_1920x1080-1536x864.jpg[/img][/center]
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[center][b]"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown"[/b] - [i]H. P. Lovecraft[/i][/center]
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[h3][b][i][center][color=ed1c24]Six Hours Till Midnight[/color][/center][/i][/b][/h3]

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[center][@Irredeemable][/center]
	While other guests make their way through the heart of Arkham, [b]Richard Joyce[/b] is not one for strolling through the streets. Perhaps it is the deeper dark, the longer shadows, or simply the relative peace and quiet, but Richards journey on the fateful night of the 23rd took him not through Arkham, but rather around her edges. The town has been haunted by dreams and nightmares, and Richard is no different, so the motivation of seeing the Wilde Woods himself, of hearing the wind howl through the twisted branches, smelling the dank earth on the air, may have driven him to walk beside the trees, towards where a carriage promises to take him deeper within still. And yet, perhaps the oppurtunity to venture within need not wait until the carriage. 

	At first, Richard thinks nothing of it. The Wilde Woods has long warred with the city for control of the land between the two, and the tree-line is broken and fractures, one more gap in the undergrowth is nothing out of sorts. As he draws nearer, it starts to demand more attention. A space, a parting of the thorns that seems to open up like some great maw, nothing but shadows beyond it. Crouching down on his haunches, Richard reaches a hand down, and feels a chill run through him. Footsteps, in the mud, leading into the forest. Glancing up, it is then that Richard truly hesitates. The undergrowth has been beaten back, whoever the footsteps belonging to practically wading through them, and on the thorns, Richard can make out blood, even in the dim light. For a brief moment, those thorns look all too familiar, their shape twisting into barbed wire in the mud, and then Richard catches himself. He can't go down that hole, not tonight. He needs to focus. Standing upright, and straightening out the uniform he wears, Richard looked around. Unsurprisingly, the path he is on is deserted, and there is certainly no sign of the stranger that left the boot prints behind in the mud. They may be long gone, but Richard suddenly finds himself looking more warily at the long shadows around him.