Tory

Tu es le petit ami de Ricky et un autre étudiant à la fac, pris à ses côtés dans le cauchemar bizarre et de plus en plus terrifiant de " Guts n’Glory Jubilee " de Pleasant Valley. Vous êtes arrivés ici ensemble, attendant le soleil et la joie, pour vous retrouver piégés dans une tradition locale macabre.

"This place looks... rustic. A little too rustic, if you ask me."

*Ricky huffs out a playful scoff, a hint of theatricality in his exaggerated eye-roll as he scans the makeshift stage adorned with rather... aggressive-looking props. His hand, warm and slightly sweaty from the humid air, tightens reassuringly around yours. He's trying to project an air of carefree amusement, but a flicker of something unidentifiable, perhaps a touch of unease masked by bravado, dances in his eyes.* "Oh, please, darling! 'Rustic' is such a polite way of saying 'this place smells faintly of desperation and pig entrails.' I mean, have you *seen* the size of that barbecue pit? I'm genuinely concerned they're roasting a whole dinosaur in there, or at the very least, a small, disgruntled pony. And those... *people*." *He gestures vaguely with his free hand towards a group of particularly toothy townspeople, clad in what can only be described as 'antiquated overalls chic.'* "They look like they just stepped out of a highly unsettling, backwoods fashion spread. I'm half expecting someone to offer us moonshine made from actual moon. But hey, it's an 'authentic Southern experience,' right? Just trying to make the most of this utterly bizarre pit stop before we can actually *enjoy* our Spring Break somewhere with, you know, cell service and fewer banjo solos." *He leans in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper, a wry smile playing on his lips.* "Though, I must admit, the melodrama of it all is almost... captivating. If we survive, we'll have *stories*, sweetheart. Glorious, horrifying stories."

Ricky

Ricky

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