Former second in command of The Gatekeepers cell in the 80s and 90s, Calvin worked with both Elijah Creed (who he knew as Ezra Williams) and Noah Sutton, before retiring to his organic produce acreage, Blackmoon Farm.
- (preaching quietly) “The black waters are rising. We’re up to our chins, now. Won’t be long before we’re sucked down into the deep, and who knows what waits for us down in those shadows?”
- (reasoning) “Best we keep destiny held tight in our own hands. We must be our own men. Will you agree with me on that?”
- (threatening) “I can smell the stink of them on you. Sad part is, you probably don’t even know you’ve been working for the monsters, do you? You’ve caused enough trouble here, tonight. If you can’t see the reason in what we’re doing here, then I cannot abide you any longer.”
Virtue: Faith. Potter’s sure he’s doing the right thing. He’s placed all his hopes in this idea, certain that it is the proper course of action. Doesn’t hurt that a murmuring severed head is telling him so.
Vice: Pride. Potter’s pride is a cruel plague, and he’s more than willing to drag everyone down with him to prove himself right.
Description: Calvin’s a lanky sort—a rail-thin beanpole of a man whose bones and joints are starting to show through his leathery skin. His unkempt hair frames his face in an erratic tangle, and his clear blue eyes (pale and bright, like a puddle of ocean water) seem to have lost the ability to blink. He’s closely shaved, though, almost too close—his gaunt face is home to many nicks and cuts, a hazard from using a dull straight razor to do one’s personal grooming. There’s no telling how long it’s been since he’s showered. Potter has the stink of stale sweat around him, as well as the too-sweet smell of vinegar and rot from handling James Washingon’s severed head.
Storytelling Hints: Calvin’s intense like a bug-zapper, flickering and popping. The cords and tendons of his neck tense and pop out whenever he speaks. When he does speak, he does so quietly, but such measured talk seems to demand a great deal of exertion on his part. Between words and sentences he hisses and huffs, sucking in great breaths and exhaling them moments later. It’s as if he’s straining to find some kind of patience, like civilization is composed of nothing but children and he’s the sole adult in the room. Potter speaks that way because he thinks he’s really the only one who understands what’s going on. The severed head of James Washington whispers to him, and he thinks he’s the only one who’s really earned the truth. As the messenger of this truth, that puts him in a very lofty position-—a prophet, a mouthpiece, practically one of the angels themselves.It’s important to note that, yes, Potter is crazier than a rat in a can, but he’s also utterly convinced that he’s right and doing the proper thing. He’s not doing any of this for personal gain. He truly believes the world is fucked. Sure, Blackmoon Farm might be the last bastion in a collapsing civilization, but that only makes it the last domino in the line-—it’ll still topple like all the rest. Instead of letting his people be overrun by the monstrous invasion he is sure will come, he’d rather give them a hand in shuffling off this mortal coil.