Claire Novak [Supernatural] (no_vacancy) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-02-20 08:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed |
Who: Daryl Dixon, Claire Novak
What: Hunting/gathering
When: following Daryl’s post
Where: the forest
Warnings: Language, & hunting animals for food
Claire was dressed in hiking boots, cargo pants, a long-sleeve tee, and denim jacket. She had a backpack slung over her shoulders, and the list of bizarre artifacts that she was hunting for in her pocket. Her blond hair was pulled back in a braid and covered with an army green bandana. Hopefully, that was sensible enough for Daryl. Not that she felt she had anything to prove--at least not to Daryl. She’d come a long way from the 12 year old girl she’d once been, whose world consisted of school, church, and family.
Whether she was still out to prove to herself that she could, indeed, protect the people that she cared about was another story.
Dressed in what could be considered his trademark style -jeans and a sleeveless vest, Daryl led the way. He couldn’t have cared less that he had a tag-along, so long as the girl understood he was in no way responsible for her well being. If she fell behind, or wandered off, he implied he wasn’t going to wait, or go back for her. Maybe he wouldn’t, though he knew he likely wouldn’t leave her to fend for herself; he just wasn’t that kind of guy.
He could thank Rick Grimes for that, mostly. Sure as hell wasn’t his brother Merle who taught him to give a shit about anyone else. His time with Rick and the other Atlanta survivors had taught him to be part of something, to give back what he got in return. His time on the train had solidified that, and all in all Daryl Dixon had grown into a man he was at least a little bit proud to be.
“This way,” he signaled to his hunting partner. He realised he couldn’t even remember her name. Started with a C, he knew that. And it wasn’t Carol.
Claire followed at a steady pace, eyes and ears open for any sign of danger. She didn’t think there were any Wyvern left in the city, but who knew if they had migrated elsewhere on the island. And there was no telling what else might be out there, lurking.
She knew it was kind of a crapshoot, whether or not she would actually find what she was looking for; but she had a goal, and she wasn’t going to let anyone or anything dissuade her pursuing it. But she did take her cues from Daryl’s relative silence and refrain from annoying him with small talk.
Daryl appreciated the silence. He wasn’t one for small talk, and he was glad his companion didn’t seem to be interested in talking over much. He’d be content if she never said a word.
He moved on near silent feet, stepping carefully to avoid fallen branches and dead leaves under his boots. Once upon a time, making too much noise could have meant the difference between life or death, and old habits died hard.
Catching the slightest far off sound, Daryl put a finger to his lips. He raised his crossbow casually, but with authority. His eyes scanned the horizon, looking for the source of the sound.
Claire might be more of a city girl, but she did her best to follow his lead, and not go stomping around like an elephant in a china shop. She paused as Daryl motioned for quiet, setting her foot down gently. Even if she wasn’t a game hunter, she knew enough about monster hunting to know that sometimes survival depended on the element of surprise.
So long as Daryl kept the crossbow raised, and stayed where he was, she kept still--only her eyes moving as she scanned the trees.
The moment passed and Daryl sighed. He took a step forward and swung a hand to motion her to follow. “You been here long?” It wasn’t small talk so much as getting to know the person he was with. She was tagging along, and it didn’t make sense to ignore her completely. As long as they talked about things that had substance, he supposed it would be all right.
“Since early November,” she said, falling into step. “Some of my family and friends were here, before me, but they’re gone now--except for Dean.” And she wasn’t even sure what to call Dean. He was sort of like an older brother slash uncle, she supposed. “And Ira’s a new friend.”
Maybe more. But she wasn’t going to get into that with a near stranger. “What about you?”
“I been here so long seems like forever.” Daryl shrugged. “Was on a train before this. And in zombieland before that. Met Maryanne on the train. We got a little boy.” Tim was still an infant. Daryl expected when the boy was older, he’d bring him hunting instead of having strangers tag along.
“I ain’t into all that Valentine’s shit.” Daryl rolled his shoulders. The statement explained his need to get away, but even if he wondered what her story was he wasn’t going to ask. Obviously she wanted to get away too, and who could blame her, with half the town making goo-goo eyes at each other?
“That’s right, I spoke to Maryanne once, briefly, before the baby came,” Claire recalled aloud. “When I first started looking into opening the daycare.” Whatever else one might say about Maryanne, she certainly wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. Claire was just glad she’d never found herself on the opinionated woman’s bad side. Yet. She could easily see them butting heads.
“All that touchy-feely crap reminds me of a story I heard, about how Famine rolled into some nowhere town, on Valentine’s Day, and started fouling up the cherub’s work. Granted, no one’s actually started chewing on each other, or anything, but it’s still a little over the top. I like to get to know people without the influence of a supernatural roofie. You know?”
“Supernatural roofie.” Daryl nodded his approval of the term. He hadn’t thought of it that way, but that seemed to be exactly what was going on. Daryl scratched his head. He had been around long enough to accept that strange things happened, zombies and vampires and other creatures were real, and sometimes things happened no one could explain except to say ‘the train did it’, or more recently ‘the island is messing with us again’. Why not supernatural roofies?
He was just glad he wasn’t affected. He’d lived most of his life hating who he was, the things he did sometimes just to survive. He’d mostly gotten past all that, and he didn’t want to fall back into that mindset. Even if the afflicted were perfectly happy with it now, Daryl knew the effects would wear off, and that’s when things could get messy.
“What exactly are you looking for out here?” he asked, turning to look at Claire. He stopped walking, for the moment.
Claire disliked anything, natural or supernatural, that robbed a person of their free will, or their ability to reason. That included everything from drugs and excessive alcohol consumption to magical compulsion to emotional blackmail. But she wasn’t about to get up on a soap box in the middle of the woods. She was just glad to have found some common ground on which to relate to her hunting guide.
“I’m looking for the ingredients to an arcane remedy for vampirism,” she said, coming to a halt beside the man and handing him the list from her pocket. “It sounds crazy, I know, but I’m not leaving any stone unturned.”
“After all the shit I’ve seen,” Daryl shrugged. “Ain’t nothing sounds too crazy to believe.” The rise of zombies had been completely unexpected, and that had been before he’d been kidnapped by some unknown force within the universe. Or maybe it was outside the universe, Daryl had no idea. His head hurt if he thought too much about it.
He glanced at the list, eyes scanning the words. “You’re going to have a tough time getting some of this obscure shit. If it’s even available here.” He handed the paper back to her. He had it memorised, more or less. “You trying to help that kid who works at Maryanne’s diner?”
Claire nodded, tucking the slip of paper back into her pocket. She had it memorized as well, but for some stupid reason that she couldn’t fully express, the feel of it in her hand was a comfort. “It wasn’t easy to get the list,” she said, “I don’t doubt that it will be even harder to get the actual items. But yeah, it’s Ira, the sandwich artist.”
Daryl nodded. “He’s a decent kid.. Hope it works out for you. For him.” What would Daryl do if someone he cared about got turned? First thing he’d do, if Mitchell was the one responsible, would be to introduce Mitchell to the pointy end of a stake. He ought to do it now, because it was wrong no matter how you analysed the situation. Daryl didn’t have all the facts, but he didn’t imagine anyone would want to be turned like that.
“I’ll help you find what we can, but some of that stuff is pretty out there, so I don’t know.” He shook his head. Finding the ingredients was going to be hard enough, and Daryl really had no idea what came after.
“I hope so, too.” Claire shrugged her shoulders, adjusting the straps of her pack. It wasn’t that heavy--she’d left room to stow anything they might find--but it was more of a nervous gesture. She cared about Ira, probably more than she’d realized, and she was all too acutely aware that she might have to face the eventuality of living with his condition.
She wondered if maybe she was only delaying the inevitable.
Daryl stilled, cocked his head, listening. He didn’t move at all except to raise his bow and after a moment he fired an arrow. A moment later, the arrow hit its mark and a squirrel lay dead, pinned to a tree. Daryl sauntered over to retrieve the animal and tied it to his belt.
“You really think you can save him yeah?” It was more a question than statement. There was no accusation in Daryl’s tone, mostly wonder. “Herschel, he kept a barn full of walkers. Friends, family. He had his wife in there. Thought one day maybe there’d be a cure.” Daryl shook his head. There had been no sign, no real hope, for a cure when he’d been yanked away from that life and dropped on the train.
Claire held still as Daryl raised the bow, glancing in the direction he had fired when she heard the arrow find it's mark. Her brows rose and she nodded in deference to his skill. She'd never had much need or opportunity to pick up a bow, herself, but that didn't mean she couldn't appreciate the discipline. And squirrel was not a large target, either.
She sighed heavily at his question, her lips perused together in a line. "In my own world? Yes. But here?" It was hard, with so much scepticism around her, and so little support left. Mitchell was cooperating, but she didn't think he believed that she'd succeed.
"All I know is that I have to try. If I don't, then I'll just always wonder."
Daryl nodded. He could appreciate the discipline it took to follow through with something when you knew there was a good chance you wouldn’t succeed. He hoped she did succeed, but the idea was a bit far fetched. But then, so was the idea of vampires walking among men.
“He’s lucky, to have a friend like you.” Daryl took a step forward, putting his back to Claire. The conversation was getting a little too close to emotional for him. He needed to take a step away, put some distance between himself and the emotions that threatened to rise in his throat like an oncoming tide.
“He’s been a good friend,” Claire said simply. She fell silent as Daryl walked onward, listening to the subtle sounds of the woods around them, their soft footfalls, and beneath that, the sound of her breath and her heartbeat. She didn’t know what she would do if she failed, only that she had to keep on, or she would break down.