[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=sienna]Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://data.whicdn.com/images/11230301/original.png[/img][hr][b][color=sienna]Location:[/color][/b] Ville au Camp (Road Heading Towards Servants Quarters) 
[b][color=sienna]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][/center]

	Gilbert wasn't really the "taking orders" type of person generally, even if Evelina was the type of person to give them. This instance was different, though. Mortality tended to do this with people, he found out, even himself. [color=sienna]"Yeah. Yeah, his room."[/color] he said quietly, nodding in the general direction of Evelina. [color=sienna]"Such a waste."[/color] He meant it, too. Another warrior, from a noble family no less, of relation to a man who was (for his time) a legendary soldier himself. He had spirit, albeit a little damaged from his experiences that led to his demise. It [i]was[/i] a waste. He had so much potential as a Paradox. 

	Even though he wasn't accustomed to performing subordinate tasks for others, the fact was that he had accepted the bloodied and still somewhat warm corpse of someone he knew personally. Someone with whom he had shared meals. Someone he had personally instructed, in the same way he had instructed all of the other Paradoxes. And now he was going to be laid to rest far, far from the place of his birth and in a time that was not his own. This was all for the sake of returning to his own people after his allotted lifespan. It wasn't a fair death; there were so few of those in the world. Not his first and not his second, either one. It was always a bad idea to go back. Hell they were even given individual instruction on that when they first arrived. Could it have been different? Or was it just his fate to perish at that time, in that manner? Were it not a Destruere, would it then have been an errant, running lawnmower, strangely plummeting from a nearby roof to explode upon him with sharpened, kinetic energy? He may never know. 

	Grim determination colored his features as he trudged, shirtless but behatted, back toward the main house. Maybe while he was there, he would take the opportunity to bundle him up in sheets. Or leave him in his room, upon his bed, as if he was merely asleep. He would have to decide when he got there. 




[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=indianred]James Grady[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://image.ibb.co/i56LZR/Blackjames.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=indianred]Location:[/color][/b] Ville au Camp (Kitchen House -> Just outside of the Kitchen House)
[b][color=indianred]Skills:[/color][/b] Peccary Form (involuntary) [hr][/center]

	[color=indianred]"Water ...water ...water..."[/color] mumbled James, foregoing the tea leaves and just procuring a glass. Being as it was the 1940's, indoor plumbing was a thing. That was something for which he was immeasurably glad. Much like the toilet; a single one for a dozen people, it wasn't the most convenient thing in the world [i]but it was indoor plumbing, damnit[/i]. Nothing to sneeze at. Wistful thoughts of interior water fixtures concluding, he filled the glass almost to the top with what he assumed was good, clear well water, and brought it back to Sophia. The earlier thought of tea had his tastes primed for the smooth, bitter goodness, and so he gave a silent vow to himself that he would in fact return to the stove put a pot of water on for tea. Black tea. With oodles of sugar, and ice if they had it. It was the way of the American South, and who was he to buck tradition? 

	The moment that he handed the water over, however, James began to feel a little strange. To begin with, it seemed as if he was just getting out of a dentist's chair. His mouth felt tight at first, followed by the abrupt protrusion of his lower canine teeth. They began to grow and reshape themselves into something more resembling a tusk - huge, bony lanceheads that had gotten so large he could [i]see them[/i]. James was growing tusks out of his face, a thing which he had to confirm with his hands. [color=indianred]"Wha... ?"[/color] he tried to ask, but his voice came out more as a porcine grunt than a human vocalization. And then he began to freak. 

	James's pulse quickened, hastening along the inevitable transformation. He cut and began to run for the nearest exterior door, hoping that this was all just a fugly dream and he was not being warped and twisted by some foul magic. Before he even got to the doorway, he found himself overbalanced, prompted to the floor by necessity. Coarse, dark grey fur sprouted from all over his body, save for a collar of tufted, purest white. His tusks grew to painfully large proportions, and by the time he had hit the porch, James was almost completely lost in the physical form of a mammoth Wild Boar. A king of a grand sounder, certainly, but a huge boar nonetheless. 

	And then he took off, tearing around the yard about the Kitchen House with unbridled, baritone squealing abandon.