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Buford Cannon, Ylva Ulven

Yet again, Ziggy finds himself pondering whether Ylva had a little something to drink before the party even began. What she said sounded so bizarre and out-of-this-world that he was having trouble just trying to make sense of it. Of course, it should be said that he wasn’t at the best state of mind, at the moment. The inside of his head felt like it was filled with cotton, and all he could think about was how much he wanted one of those sandwiches Ford had brought with him. But as he gazes upon the seemingly insurmountable gulf separating him from where all the food is, Ziggy feels his prior motivation drain from him, and flops bonelessly back on the couch.

“Dude, are you kidding?” Ziggy clicks his tongue in response to Ford’s offhanded jab, though the prickly tone of his voice is tinged with humour. Straightening in his seat, he points to the baking tray before him. “I’d never waste that stuff on brownies.”

Ford’s anecdote captures his attention like a shiny trinket would a magpie. Ziggy listens on, enraptured despite the rambling nature of the story, and is almost a little disappointed when it draws to a close. All this talk about spooky voices and buried treasure reminded him of one of those stories kids would tell one another around a campfire.

“What was the treasure?” The question escapes him before he’s able to stop himself. It might not have been the point, but the primitive, reptilian part of his brain was dying to know what Ford’s uncle found. Then, as if suddenly reminded of the situation at hand, he shakes his head and hoped that it would sober him up somewhat.

Wait, wait, wait. Sorry. You said something about… us being here for a reason?” As he speaks, Ziggy’s brow furrows in thought, and he brings a hand up to his lips, beginning to gnaw absentmindedly at the nail of his thumb. “That sounds like some cult shit, you know? Like Jim Jones and stuff? But this is just a school, right? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Whichever way he tried to spin it, he couldn’t think of another reason Ylva would be hearing those voices—well, apart from vengeful, malicious spirits, or possibly even aliens, if they wanted to have all grounds covered. Shivering theatrically, he lets his gaze dart from one corner of the hallway to another, before it eventually finds its way back to Ford and Ylva again. “Man, I don’t know. This is giving me serious heebie-jeebies right now.”

@bandcrsnatch sorry double post. But you can move the CS it's good

Whoops, sorry. Just saw this. Thank ya kindly. :)
@Ever Sorry, didn't see this. I'd still be interested. :)
@Themerlinhawk Ok, it's 3 a.m. here and my brain's kinda checked out, but here's my dude. Let me know if there's anything that doesn't make sense, and I'll get to fixin' it in the morning. :^)

I'll start working on a character. Maybe an occult writer or historian of some sort.
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Pagan Poetry - Björk
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Wake Me Up When September Ends - Green Day
Unmade - Thom Yorke
PILOT - Tyler, The Creator (feat. Sydney Bennett)
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