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[center][img]https://robotmanmachine.files.wordpress.com/2013/07/jasonmshadow.jpg[/img][/center][hr][hr][center][color=sienna][b]Location:[/b][/color] Ville au Camp, Kitchen House
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	The wet, hacking sound of flesh being split asunder rang from deep within the sleepy Louisiana house. Again and again a heavy cleaver rose and fell, hewing its target like the work of an uncaring butcher, guided by a strong, practiced hand. The work was fast and efficient, if not demonstrating the utmost of precision. The man holding the cleaver didn't seem to care. Quite the opposite, the impressively tall man seemed delighted at his efforts, smiling down upon the now fully disarticulated hunk of once living tissue with anticipatory glee. 

	The tall man had the forethought to don a nearby [url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/fa/70/24/fa702471e53cabfc89c8d5efd2bc94e1.jpg]apron[/url] to prevent the bulk of the splatter from ruining his clothing, what clothing he still had on at the time. The apron was not remotely large enough to cover the bulk of the cleaver-wielding man's muscular frame, though it did conceal the important bits readily enough. His long, unkempt hair swung lazily in front of his face as his smile parted into a delighted, nigh maniacal grin. He inspected his stained chopping utensil, nodded, and gave a satisfied growl. 

	[color=sienna]"Mmm, beefy..."[/color] he murmured, lifting his handiwork up off of the counter; a grand, rectangular wooden cutting board containing the irregularly chopped remains of an unknown number of thick, meaty steaks. Using the flat edge of the cleaver, he scraped the steaky goodness into a lightly oiled, heated cast iron pan and listened to the satisfying sizzle of meat hitting heat. A few tiny bowls of ingredients were arranged nearby; coarse salt, freshly ground pepper, minced garlic, oil, cilantro, and tiny amounts of cumin, cinnamon, and paprika. He dumped the entirety of them into the pan just the second that the meat started to brown. This was the last salvo in what promised to be a very mediocre breakfast. For him. 

	Far be it for him to only have chopped steak for breakfast; he had already set a covered plate of eggs to the side (a good full dozen and a half of them), along with a full loaf of some manner of crusty bread and comb-in-jar honey, persimmon jam, whole sauteed mushrooms, a pitcher of cold milk, and a basket of juicy, red pears. A kettle of water was going on the stove for tea, as he was beginning to develop a taste for it these past couple of millennia or so (and if he were honest with himself, because he knew Evelina had a great fondness for it). But the steak had to be prepared [i]last[/i], served barely cooked yet still steaming hot, and comprise an amount equal to everything else present. Such was the glory of seared herd mammal. 

	Sitting down to the table, he briefly wondered what everyone else was going to have for breakfast. He shrugged, then jammed a fork into his morning repast and tore into it. The apron was still on him, still covering everything that screamed for modesty in the barest sense. In fact, the only clothing that was readily apparent on the man in his present state was an untied burgundy ascot tie and a pair of thick cotton socks. From the angle of the main entrance to the kitchen, one would [i]swear[/i] the man wasn't wearing pants, and for good reason. But again, important parts covered by a frilly, floral apron suitable for domestic work. Plus his boxers, but they were fitfully concealed as well. While he ate, he considered his day so far. 

	His was an interesting morning. He had awoken in his workshop out in the Mill, head positioned awkwardly on a worktable on top of one of his arms, the other still clutching a mallet. He had been working late again, doing his part to see to the upkeep of the Destrehan Plantation and the growing Armory. He had no problem using his gift to summon/fabricate items of use from his Hat, but doing so to the exclusion of other methods seemed lazy. Even irresponsible. Plus, it just felt [i]good[/i] to fire up the forge every now and again, and pound away at an orange-hot, malleable bar of steel. He was just putting the finishing touches on a series of melee weapons, bone and horn handles, leather wrappings, final whitesmithing of completed blades, etc., and had just lay his head down for a moment to rest his eyes. When his eyes were fully rested, it was early in the morning. Very early. The sun had not yet crested the horizon, and his antique pocketwatch told him that it would be a while before it would. So, he did what any man in his position might: He wrapped chains around his limbs and hefted his anvil, using the shaped steel as weight resistance while he put himself through an impressive regimen of ante meridiem calisthenics. 

	Naturally, it made a man hungry. And so he sat, awash in the bliss of fresh, hot food, his signature Hat set upon the table next to his plate and mostly without respectable clothing otherwise. Eve had mentioned something about an early start to the day, which made him assume that others might also be awake. Well, maybe he could be persuaded to give up some of his fine repast. It looked to be an excellent Halloween this day. Full of potential. Promise. Other optimistic things. He may as well greet it healthy, strong, and well fed. 

	His pants... well, he'd take them out of the oven when they were good and ready, and not a moment before.