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Entry tags:
If this place falls apart, I need you. [Closed]
Who | Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon
What | Stuff and thangs.
When | Earlier in the arena, before their deaths. Backdated like a boss.
Where | Just off from the caves.
Warnings/Notes | Violence and language. I'll update as needed.
There were times Rick felt the arena suited him better than the Capitol ever could. Survival had become an intrinsic part of who he was, the time long past when he could simply live; it was hard to shift out of that gear after being stuck there for so long. Scavenging, fighting, making it - it was all they knew now, and there was comfort to be found in familiarity, no matter how horrific it was. In his mind, this was closer to the real world, raw and without the veneer of expensive comforts.
The three of them had been quick to find their stride, managing well in the face of the harsh conditions. It was colder than Georgia ever was, the snow deeper than the usual dusting they got, but they adapted quickly. Between Daryl's hunting and their makeshift snares, they were bringing in more than enough food to last them - especially when one factored in their usual lean diets. The supplies they'd salvaged from the cornucopia were budgeted, always anticipating that they might be the last they'd get.
Looking back, it was hard to pinpoint exactly where it had gone wrong.
That morning, the two of them were out on what should have been a routine scouting mission. Rick had been jarred from a state of half-sleep when the resonating crack of a gunshot pierced the still morning air. It wasn't the first he'd heard - though he had no idea where they were finding the guns - but it was the closest he'd ever heard it.
The layout of the arena had limited their options so far as location, and the cave didn't allow for a clear view of their surroundings. The tree line was dangerous, and with the echo obscuring the exact location, there was no telling which direction it had come from. It was better that they know, better that they be safe than let an armed tribute stumble upon their camp and catch them off guard. Better still if they managed to take them out quietly, relieve them of their weapons before they could do any further damage. Maybe that had been his first mistake.
The sun was peeking just over the artificial horizon by the time they'd happened upon the trail - not of the culprit, but their victim. There was enough snow to see the deer's tracks, unsteady and obviously wounded; its weaving path was dotted with red, blood stark against the white backdrop. It was after that that Daryl had taken point, the only one of them with any real tracking ability. Rick had picked up some during their first winter together and in the time since, but he was still miles away from actually being good at it. Following his lead, Rick had fallen back, knife gripped tightly as he made to hold up the rear. It could very easily have been a trap - Lure them in with the sound, strike the moment they showed their backs.
That was likely his second misstep. It wasn't that he was wrong - the other people there posed an undeniable threat. After all, the entire purpose of these games was to pit them against one another, testing the limits to which they'd go to in the name of survival and victory. It had been a different trap that Rick had fallen into, one not left by a tribute - he'd spent so much time mistrusting others, anticipating their next moves, he'd let himself underestimate the environment itself.
By the time he'd heard the branch snap, realizing what he'd done, he knew it was too late.
Shit.
He caught a flash of tan fur as he spun around, heart in his throat and knife raised. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. Even if he'd managed to get a good strike in, it would have been a futile effort against an animal of that size. Recognizing that he was outmatched, he took a few wide steps back, knowing they both needed to make a quick exit.
"Daryl-"
They were long past the point of worrying about stealth. Trouble had already found them.
What | Stuff and thangs.
When | Earlier in the arena, before their deaths. Backdated like a boss.
Where | Just off from the caves.
Warnings/Notes | Violence and language. I'll update as needed.
There were times Rick felt the arena suited him better than the Capitol ever could. Survival had become an intrinsic part of who he was, the time long past when he could simply live; it was hard to shift out of that gear after being stuck there for so long. Scavenging, fighting, making it - it was all they knew now, and there was comfort to be found in familiarity, no matter how horrific it was. In his mind, this was closer to the real world, raw and without the veneer of expensive comforts.
The three of them had been quick to find their stride, managing well in the face of the harsh conditions. It was colder than Georgia ever was, the snow deeper than the usual dusting they got, but they adapted quickly. Between Daryl's hunting and their makeshift snares, they were bringing in more than enough food to last them - especially when one factored in their usual lean diets. The supplies they'd salvaged from the cornucopia were budgeted, always anticipating that they might be the last they'd get.
Looking back, it was hard to pinpoint exactly where it had gone wrong.
That morning, the two of them were out on what should have been a routine scouting mission. Rick had been jarred from a state of half-sleep when the resonating crack of a gunshot pierced the still morning air. It wasn't the first he'd heard - though he had no idea where they were finding the guns - but it was the closest he'd ever heard it.
The layout of the arena had limited their options so far as location, and the cave didn't allow for a clear view of their surroundings. The tree line was dangerous, and with the echo obscuring the exact location, there was no telling which direction it had come from. It was better that they know, better that they be safe than let an armed tribute stumble upon their camp and catch them off guard. Better still if they managed to take them out quietly, relieve them of their weapons before they could do any further damage. Maybe that had been his first mistake.
The sun was peeking just over the artificial horizon by the time they'd happened upon the trail - not of the culprit, but their victim. There was enough snow to see the deer's tracks, unsteady and obviously wounded; its weaving path was dotted with red, blood stark against the white backdrop. It was after that that Daryl had taken point, the only one of them with any real tracking ability. Rick had picked up some during their first winter together and in the time since, but he was still miles away from actually being good at it. Following his lead, Rick had fallen back, knife gripped tightly as he made to hold up the rear. It could very easily have been a trap - Lure them in with the sound, strike the moment they showed their backs.
That was likely his second misstep. It wasn't that he was wrong - the other people there posed an undeniable threat. After all, the entire purpose of these games was to pit them against one another, testing the limits to which they'd go to in the name of survival and victory. It had been a different trap that Rick had fallen into, one not left by a tribute - he'd spent so much time mistrusting others, anticipating their next moves, he'd let himself underestimate the environment itself.
By the time he'd heard the branch snap, realizing what he'd done, he knew it was too late.
Shit.
He caught a flash of tan fur as he spun around, heart in his throat and knife raised. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. Even if he'd managed to get a good strike in, it would have been a futile effort against an animal of that size. Recognizing that he was outmatched, he took a few wide steps back, knowing they both needed to make a quick exit.
"Daryl-"
They were long past the point of worrying about stealth. Trouble had already found them.
no subject
If they had the fortune to find the carcass unclaimed, he fully intended to field dress it and take it with them on the way back. On the other hand, if it had already been collected and dragged elsewhere, it would simply make it that much easier to find the owner of the gun. Either way, he planned for them to benefit from this outing.
The quiet stillness was broken by the sound of a snapping branch, causing him to automatically glance back toward his companion, and his look of mild annoyance was immediately transformed into one of alarm as realisation struck him. Either their path had intersected with the sabertooth tiger's, or else it must have been following them from a distance and was just catching up. Abruptly leaving the deer's trail, he doubled back to grab Rick's arm.
"C'mon," he said with a sharp nod in the direction he meant to go — toward the area most likely to provide some cover, with the abundance of trees and rocky outcroppings. If they couldn't outrun the tiger, they might have to turn and fight. Best to have something solid at their backs in case. Without the need for stealth, he abandoned the smooth, precise gait of a tracker and hit the untouched snow at a dead run. They were on an incline which became fairly steep toward the bottom, and with the sun reflecting off the snow and nearly blinding at times, it was difficult to navigate and accurately judge the distance. This resulted in Daryl pretty much stumbling his way down and landing in the deep snowdrift at the bottom, sending a spray of powdery white into the air.
He sprang back to his feet quickly and spared Rick a glance as he warned, "Watch your step!" Ideally Rick would follow the path he'd made and have an easier go of things, but Daryl didn't wait to find out, already pushing ahead and wading through the snow. The rumbling sounds of the tiger weren't far behind.