The Deep South

Moss-draped live oaks choke out the sun over dark, stagnant bayous where voodoo shadows dance. Rusting plantation ruins groan with the weight of generational blood-guilt, while swamp-dwelling rougarous stalk the cypress knees and phantom blues guitarists barter souls at midnight crossroads. It is a suffocating, rain-beaten furnace of gothic decay where the air is thick, the water is black, and the past refuses to rot away.