Doc Holliday (sixgunsurgeon) wrote in helladjacent, @ 2017-05-16 16:53:00 |
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Entry tags: | !jumps: victorian london, character: doc holliday, character: molly carpenter |
Who: Doc Holliday & Molly
What: Arrives at the Hotel
When: Plot Day 1, Morning
Where: Hotel Lobby/Lounge
Warnings: Innuendo
Status: Complete
Demon Revenants. Three sweet ladies. One dead, not so sweet. One quivering. The other looking like a bat out of hell with brimstone still burning on her wings. And some gargantuan beast the likes of which he had not seen on this earth and hoped he would never have to see again, crumbled to a gooey substance in the snow covered ground at the boundary of the Ghost River Triangle.
Amen and good riddance to bad rubbish.
Wynonna was looking at him again with that wanton twinkle in her eye and that half-pouting curl at her lips, talking about how she was planning on planting a poplar tree for her sister and take down every demon this side of the Rocky Mountains. He might have thought he was in heaven, were it not for the fact that he was going on 166 years of age and there was a certain witch buried up to her neck that would tell him otherwise. Doc grinned. She might have kissed another man, and that was alright seeing as how they hadn’t committed to anything serious between them, but he was the one she was looking at now with all that grit and gumption. Oh, how he’d love to take that mare to pasture and ride her ‘til they were both too sore for the saddle.
“Sweetheart,” she said. “I’m ready for anything.”
And then they were staring down the barrel of a six gun revolver, the cylinder clicking into the next chamber.
Blink.
Doc glanced down at the quill in his hand, his scrawl on the book in front of him and ink dotting his palm. A look to the left. A look to the right. A number was slowly burning itself into the paper beside his name and Doc took note. Then a device of which he had limited (alright, let’s be honest, zero) knowledge jingled in his hand and flashed a greeting to him which he found both vague and untrustworthy.
“Well,” he said, drawling at the end of the word in his Georgian accent. “All things considered, I suppose that’s better than a piece of lead in the brain.”
He slipped the PDA into his pocket beside his old silver timepiece.
“Now, no self respecting hotel would be equipped without a bar. I just hope whiskey’s on the menu.”
Because he would need a substantial amount of hooch to help him piece all of this together.
And let us now presume a brief passing of time wherein Doc, exhibiting all his earthly ability to attract the scent of a beautiful whiskey bottle, has managed the not-so-concerted effort of locating the lounge. Because his story would inevitably land him there and as such it is well warranted to arrange him in a position befitting a man deftly familiar with intoxication.
Here ends the intermission.