Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"
Location: Ville au Camp (Main House, outside of Room 106 -> Moving to Kitchen House)
Skills: N/A
The nod from Evelina was accepted, as was the whisper of gratitude for carrying Peter's body back and into his room. Gilbert had seen death in his lifetime, possibly far more than any other creature that had ever walked the Earth. It was equally possible that he had
caused far more death, at least on a personal level, than any other creature that had walked the Earth. Not counting people that had ordered massacres and genocides, mind you. Such people were useful only as examples of the worst humanity had to offer. Gilbert was a warrior, not a monster. And even now, he was more of a historian or a trainer than that, anymore. Still, it was very hard to erase unfathomed millennia of killing, be it for duty, honor, defense, or glory. Soldier, not killer. Most of the time.
"You are welcome." he said simply, in polite response to Evie. He hadn't much in the way of Peter's blood on him, so it was a quick matter of using a pocket handkerchief to wipe the crimson from his skin in places, after which he pulled his slightly wrinkled shirt from the back of his belt, along with his vest, and tossed them back on. It was only then that he paid attention to the presence of the new Paradox.
"Miss Aldrich." he intoned, giving a respectful tip of his hat to her.
"It's a lot at once. More than most. You are in good hands." It was at this moment that he took a look into the more recent history of the past few minutes of the Destrehan Plantation grounds. George had help. More than enough offered, from the looks of things. He could, and probably should, return to his little tour group. Andromeda had an Emendator giving her personalized attention. The most he could do was offer a snatch of polite conversation before returning to his fledgling Paradoxes. A slight bow to her, and Gilbert was off, walking back to the Kitchen House to see what had become of the new people stumbling over their new powers.
James Grady
Location: Ville au Camp (Yard just outside of the Kitchen House -> Kitchen House)
Skills: N/A
Sarcasm and vomit. Hell, James could have stayed in zombie-infested, post-apocalyptic Georgia for that. Sarcasm, vomit, transparent girl (ok, now THAT was an acceptable superhero name), and he was a big, tusky pig. It was enough to make him want to cry. Or vomit. Or say something sarcastic. Going glassy wasn't an option for him, though. You see, as previously mentioned, he turned into a pig. It wasn't that bad, really. The process would take a lot of getting used to, that was for sure.
But someone had mentioned a drink. That someone was him a while ago, but someone else did very recently, and that lady was busy walking into the Kitchen House, presumably for the purpose of acquiring said beverages. Now
that was something that he could get into. Walking up behind Alicia, and upon noting with satisfaction that he was plodding behind her in work boots and not muddy hooves, James gave her the space that she required to sashay, saunter, or otherwise move freely and act like a boss with the other Paradoxes until he could get at whatever flammable, intoxicating liquid this place had readily available. When she pulled out the mason jars of clear liquid and set one down in front of him, James was in awe. Slowly, and with slightly trembling hand, the solid blackneck reverently lifted the jar to eye level, getting the best possible look at this wonderful, wonderful miracle.
"Naw, girl..." he started, voice barely above a whisper,
"Naw, that's just... Wait." More strength came into his voice as he mentally put a couple of things together.
The jar said "Holloway", not "Holloway & Sons". Further, James had only ever seen this particular spirit in a bottle, not a jar. And he'd only ever seen it from one source. Then it hit him - this was 1943, not the new millennium. Ash's father wasn't in charge of the distillery, this would be his
grandfather. And by Distillery, James meant "Operation". There was still good money in tax-free liquor, and Prohibition had given a lot of people the taste for, as his good friend put it, "Homestyle Appalachian Sippin' Whiskey". Though the family had gone legitimate in the more recent decades of his alotted lifespan, in the 1940s it was still technically a criminal enterprise. An open secret, in the truest sense of the word. The Captain had nothing to do with this booze, oh no. This was his daddy's daddy. And the tradition went back farther than that.
A smile crept upon James's face that broadened into a full, toothy grin. He took in the aroma of pungent, mountain spirits, letting it linger for a while. While others were taken aback by the dulcet notes of fine moonshine, James welcomed it. This represented one of the few things that was good about the Apocalypse: The friends he made among the survivors, people he otherwise wouldn't have had anything to do with were the world to plod along as usual. He first sampled this spirit with a man who had held a gun on him, a man who had become his friend and ally, whose people became his people. The man whose name was emblazoned across the front of the bottle, and could work alcoholic goddamned
magic with a late peach harvest.
James heard Alicia's warning about the booze, but waved it off. He brought the jar up to his big, friendly smile, and too a gulp. Time FROZE. Two or three seconds passed as he stood there, eyes wide and transfixed on something in the distance, despite the fact that they were behind walls. The smile remained, but there seemed to be pain behind it now, and a certain "begging for release" vibe in his eyes. His head tilted a few degrees to one side, only slightly, and then James calmly set the jar back down.
"Ooh. Aw damn..." he exhaled quietly, slowly leaning forward as if to take pressure off of his stomach as the truly inspiring liquid hit home, exploding as warmth within his gut. It was definitely made by the same family. Notes of specific flavor and a telltale finish proved that to him. This was Holloway stock. It was just a little less people-friendly than the unoaked Virginian whiskey that he had grown accustomed to. Younger. Bolder. Possibly designed with weaponization in mind. It wasn't any stronger, persay, but like his newfound power, he was going to have to grow accustomed to it.
"Damn, but that'll take the wrinkles out y'sack. Mmmm. Thank you, little lady!" James's voice gained strength and clarity as he spoke.
"It ain't The Man's, but damn if it don't do what it's supposed to!" He turned around, looking for whomever was around,
"Hey! Y'all need to get in on this. Don't know what you missin'." He decided to take Alicia's advice on the matter this time, and brought the jar up to his lips again. This time, he started slow.
