Daryl Dixon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
weaintashes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-02-27 03:27 pm
weaintashes) wrote in thearena2015-02-27 03:27 pm
Entry tags:
Our old friend fear and you and me
Who| Beth, Daryl, Rick. (Possible cameo reaction from Luke later, if he wants.)
What| Daryl's death.
Where| Their cave camp.
When| Week 4.
Warnings/Notes| Gore and violence, some of it against tigers. Death, of course.
The attack comes shortly before dawn, when the world is still hidden in shadow, save for the flickering ring of light provided by a dwindling campfire, reflected in muted shades of amber and gold on the faces of the trio surrounding it. Reflected in the glowing eyes of the silent predators circling closer. The coat pattern of the nearest tiger is uniquely recognisable, the scars along its head and shoulders unmistakable — the very same one Daryl and Rick had escaped from once before. When it ventures into their camp now, another tiger of slighter stature accompanies it, possibly its sibling or mate.
The ensuing chaos is violently decisive.
These are intelligent hunters, and immediately single out Beth — the smallest of the group, thus perceived as the easiest prey — as their target. In his attempt to knock Beth out of the way, Daryl has no choice but to put himself directly in the path of the lunge meant for her, and is knocked off his feet before he can even brace himself for the impact. He goes down hard beneath the bone-crushing weight of the tiger driving him into the frozen ground, instinctively trying to protect his head and bringing his knees up to make it more difficult to reach the most vulnerable parts of his body. Against a predator several times his size and hellbent on killing him, it's all but futile.
Despite his companions' best efforts to help him while also contending with the secondary threat, the tiger mauls Daryl, his layers of winter clothing offering minimal protection from the rending claws and oversized fangs. But the position also leaves the tiger's unprotected belly exposed, which Daryl's quick to take advantage of even as the beast tears into him — he lodges his hunting knife deep into the tiger's chest and frantically jerks, ripping through fur and thick muscle, aiming to mortally wound his attacker and hoping at the very least to slow it down. He spares little thought for himself during the struggle, a part of him already accepting that he may not survive this. All that matters is finishing off the threat before it has the chance to turn on the others.
He isn't sure how it ends, just that it does. The suffocating weight of the tiger leaves him. Rick and Beth are reduced to blurs of colour and motion in his greying peripheral vision — they're both alive, and that knowledge is enough to ease his mind.
For a time, he's lost to a blinding haze of pain, overwhelming all of his senses and leaving him in a semi-conscious state. When he next regains awareness, the tigers and their bone-rattling roars are gone, and the star filled sky has been replaced by the familiar stone roof of the cave they've been living in for the past several weeks. There's the scent of pine, wood smoke, damp earth, all rendered faint beneath the thick stench of gore. For the moment he's alone.
He's kneeling slumped against the cave wall in a widening pool of blood, arms clutching his ruined midsection. Small tendrils of steam rise from the heavy flow of blood as it hits the frigid air. Every breath, every movement is punctuated with a wave of intense pain, forcing him to clench his jaw against the sounds of agony he can barely suppress. Without needing to check himself over he's aware of the extent of his injuries, can feel organs shifting against his blood-slicked hands through his torn open abdomen, the sting of deep lacerations across his face and neck, the not unfamiliar sensation of cracked ribs grinding against each other — and knows his time and strength are both limited.
With unsteady, shaking hands and singular purpose, he begins stripping off his knives, tattered parka, jacket, winged vest, snow boots, anything that will be potentially useful for those he'll be leaving shortly; knowing neither Rick nor Beth will have the presence of mind to do it after he's dead. Pragmatic to the end.
What| Daryl's death.
Where| Their cave camp.
When| Week 4.
Warnings/Notes| Gore and violence, some of it against tigers. Death, of course.
The attack comes shortly before dawn, when the world is still hidden in shadow, save for the flickering ring of light provided by a dwindling campfire, reflected in muted shades of amber and gold on the faces of the trio surrounding it. Reflected in the glowing eyes of the silent predators circling closer. The coat pattern of the nearest tiger is uniquely recognisable, the scars along its head and shoulders unmistakable — the very same one Daryl and Rick had escaped from once before. When it ventures into their camp now, another tiger of slighter stature accompanies it, possibly its sibling or mate.
The ensuing chaos is violently decisive.
These are intelligent hunters, and immediately single out Beth — the smallest of the group, thus perceived as the easiest prey — as their target. In his attempt to knock Beth out of the way, Daryl has no choice but to put himself directly in the path of the lunge meant for her, and is knocked off his feet before he can even brace himself for the impact. He goes down hard beneath the bone-crushing weight of the tiger driving him into the frozen ground, instinctively trying to protect his head and bringing his knees up to make it more difficult to reach the most vulnerable parts of his body. Against a predator several times his size and hellbent on killing him, it's all but futile.
Despite his companions' best efforts to help him while also contending with the secondary threat, the tiger mauls Daryl, his layers of winter clothing offering minimal protection from the rending claws and oversized fangs. But the position also leaves the tiger's unprotected belly exposed, which Daryl's quick to take advantage of even as the beast tears into him — he lodges his hunting knife deep into the tiger's chest and frantically jerks, ripping through fur and thick muscle, aiming to mortally wound his attacker and hoping at the very least to slow it down. He spares little thought for himself during the struggle, a part of him already accepting that he may not survive this. All that matters is finishing off the threat before it has the chance to turn on the others.
He isn't sure how it ends, just that it does. The suffocating weight of the tiger leaves him. Rick and Beth are reduced to blurs of colour and motion in his greying peripheral vision — they're both alive, and that knowledge is enough to ease his mind.
For a time, he's lost to a blinding haze of pain, overwhelming all of his senses and leaving him in a semi-conscious state. When he next regains awareness, the tigers and their bone-rattling roars are gone, and the star filled sky has been replaced by the familiar stone roof of the cave they've been living in for the past several weeks. There's the scent of pine, wood smoke, damp earth, all rendered faint beneath the thick stench of gore. For the moment he's alone.
He's kneeling slumped against the cave wall in a widening pool of blood, arms clutching his ruined midsection. Small tendrils of steam rise from the heavy flow of blood as it hits the frigid air. Every breath, every movement is punctuated with a wave of intense pain, forcing him to clench his jaw against the sounds of agony he can barely suppress. Without needing to check himself over he's aware of the extent of his injuries, can feel organs shifting against his blood-slicked hands through his torn open abdomen, the sting of deep lacerations across his face and neck, the not unfamiliar sensation of cracked ribs grinding against each other — and knows his time and strength are both limited.
With unsteady, shaking hands and singular purpose, he begins stripping off his knives, tattered parka, jacket, winged vest, snow boots, anything that will be potentially useful for those he'll be leaving shortly; knowing neither Rick nor Beth will have the presence of mind to do it after he's dead. Pragmatic to the end.
cw: gore n' stuff
Luke steps back, breath pluming.
It takes him a moment to realize that the slimy, purplish mass bulging from the tribute’s suit are unraveling coils of intestine pushing out though torn meat. It’s a train-wreck from there upwards, too familiar and too terrible to tear his gaze away from before he’s seen what there is to see. The man has been carved up into ragged flaps of meat and graying skin, the stark white of naked bone peeking underneath. There’s a strangely neat slit at his temple, too, blood streaking his cheek and jaw - and as soon as Luke lets himself look into the man’s ruined face he understands why.
Though the expectation always lives inside him, his gut curdling with a sick, sinking dread, somehow he’s never ready to find someone he knows among the dead. Somehow it’s always a surprise, like a cold slap. It feels like it was only yesterday when Daryl had done what he could to save him, whispering to him of the price of helping him cheat death. And now he’s being dragged like a sack of trash to the edge of the street and all Luke can think of as he stares helplessly is that this, like every aspect of the arena, was carefully orchestrated. This was the Capitol’s vengeance.
His chest tightens, eyes going dark.
Daryl deserved better than this.
Everyone dead or alive in this goddamn rat-maze did.
He blinks and glances up, a muscle rippling in his clenched jaw while he looks long towards the caves.
WELP HERE WE GO
She never asked him to save her, but he does. He moves just a few seconds before she even realizes what's going on, and Beth curses herself yet again. For being too slow, for not paying attention for the two seconds it takes for everything to go wrong. She's got a knife out as soon as the attack happens, stabbing at brightly matted fur wherever she can in the chaos.
And then it's over. It's over, and her first response is to go to him, to put her hand over his slick hands, looking down as if trying to assess the damage. Her dad taught her a couple of things, taught her how to look after people. But -- there's a part of her that knows at the back of her head that it's too late for Daryl. She doesn't want to believe it.
"Hey, you shouldn't be movin'," she whispers soothingly to him, choking back tears. "We're gonna take care of you. I promise."
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