Backstory & Cameos
Born in 1884, Jameson was no stranger to the embrace of the cold hard streets. Raised like an urchin, he learned to welcome the blanket of nightfall and steal as he needed. Within his small Irish town, he became a name spoken on sour lips and often damned by the constabulary. Before he was a man, his family took ill and died violent deaths by choking on their own blood. When the potato famine took hold, Jameson had finally taken up the reigns of his life as a man and stowed away on a vessel to the United States. After uneasily making his way to South Carolina, he found work near Pinehurst Asylum. From inside the asylum, a doctor who did not know rest caught sight of our able bodied fellow in a place he should not have been. The doctor produced a syringe containing a serum of dark science, and Jameson quickly found this ungodly concoction to be coursing through his veins. He fell limp against a tree, and there he laid until a familiar face from the nearby hotel found him. There he heard the first words he had heard in a long time. A mystic chant coming from a fellow in a top hat, wrapped in a red scarf holding a black feather. Once the chanting ceased, Jameson took control of his body once more. “You daft hooligan.” Jameson spoke, “I was takin’ a nap.”
Sitings & Sketches
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