she's nothing more than a snake devil

[Laurel Booth]

Um. Hi. I babble lots! *obviously doesn't intend for you to match this unless you want to!*
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Given the first moment to slip away and keep to himself, Laurel took it. He returned to the city with his banjo firmly at hand (or in this case, drug along by its strap and hanging loosely off of his shoulder), acting slightly like a man with a mission. His mission wasn't to scope out the city for potential threats or make it through a landmine field, but he was in search of a music store. For expansive as the city was, he thought surely there would be such a place. And sure enough, down a street with a rusty, worn sign that he couldn't read despite attempting to, there was one. Nestled in a block long row of buildings, it was just as dusty and dirty and every other quaint little store front in the entire city. Upon reaching the door, he was even surprised to find that there wasn't a single crack in the windows.



Apparently werewolves and the like didn't care much for music.



Regardless of that factoid manifesting in his brain, the lack of cracks in the door window was about to change when he discovered it was locked. Breaking into things was hardly a skill of his, but it was easily done when one pointed their elbow at the right angle. Paying no mind to how quiet or loud he was about it (or the cursing that ensued when he didn't get it right the first time), Laurel let himself in and much to his relief, didn't sneeze at the stirred up dust. This time, he blamed the humidity that was plaguing the air because it had rained all morning on his venture there. Beneath his feet, the floorboards protested being walked on for the first time in ages, just as the stale air made his throat itchy.



“At least you're a dry little store, for now,” he murmured, eyeing the guitars that were mounted to its faded off-white walls. He passed a display of sheet music, playing mind to the way things were in disarray around the store, from the haphazard music cases of instruments stacked just behind the counter, to boxes full of lord knew what. The object that he had in mind were replacement strings for his instrument of choice, even though it didn't need them. It had never hurt to have them on hand and as he approached the payment counter, he spied such a thing in its glass case. That of which he wasn't about to try and recreate his elbow-smashing technique, but instead leaned over the counter far too precariously to try and reach inside and grab them.

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