Later that evening, once against rebelling against Mayor Vaine's only constant rule, Will finds himself in the forest. He's barefoot, his boots discarded at the bank of the creek at acts as a barrier between Estonvale and the Woods. He sits under his favorite willow, legs crossed and a journal in his lap. A vine curls around his fingers, swirling around his arm to trail up by his neck. A nervous habit he had picked up a while bag. He twirls a dripping quill in his other hand, watching as the ink falls from the tip and stains the parchment. The card desk sits to his right. He hadn't looked from. He couldn't bring himself to do so.
With the sun drooping beneath the horizon, the Woods grow darker and darker. It's only when the words on his page had disappeared entirely that Will realizes the late hour. He sighs through his nose, blindly packing up his things into his bag.
When he stands, he hears it. His blood goes cold, his eyes fly wide, he freezes in his place. Voices. And they're near.