october catch-all

[trailmark]

Who: daryl + you
Where: various
When: october
What: october catch-all post with both open + closed prompts

Warnings: language, violence, blood, stinky men

open + closed prompts in the comments. if you want something custom, hmu in my dms or batbrain.

can swap to prose if that's your preference!

Comments

— closed starters

[trailmark]

— furiosa

[trailmark]

( The Scrapyard looks different later in the day, quieter, but never really asleep. The sun is casting shadows across piles of scrap, and the hum of distant machinery bleeds into the heat that still radiates off the metal.

Daryl rolls in on the bike slow, easing the engine down to a low idle before killing it just outside one of the bays. He swings off and shoulders the pack he'd brought - light, but weighted with scavenged odds and ends. No major repairs tonight. Just swapping a couple parts before they give out with a few things he'd found in his last few treks through the fringes.

He ducks inside the garage. It still smells like fuel, rubber, and hot steel from others working recently. Not the worst smell and definitely preferable to the smell of rotting flesh you found everywhere back home. It's still strange to him not to be surrounded by the dead, not to see hoards descending on him out of nowhere. He still doesn't trust it. Doesn't trust this place. But there's a part of him that won't deny that he's grateful he doesn't have to spend a bunch of time sweeping every nook and cranie of the garage.

He props the pack on the workbench, unzipping it just enough to show the parts, then rests his hand on the seat of the bike thoughtfully. Mentally going down the list of what he needs to accomplish while he's here.

He casts one look over his shoulder toward the open doorway nearby where he can see her moving, voice carrying just enough to be heard. )

Whenever you're ready.

( No impatience. No commentary. Just letting her know he's here. )

[imperatour]

One sec.

[ Equally unhurried. Furiosa has never let a man rush her aside from the one who put his brand on her neck, and that's only because he had a very different type of leverage on her. Point is, She's not about to let Daryl hurry her.

She calls out easily from a tall chair where she's hunched over a work table with goggles pulled over her eyes and black scarf over her nose and mouth to block some of the acrid-smelling vapors from the soldering iron in her hand. Furiosa isn't working on a car for once, but doing some maintenance on her arm instead, anchoring back down a loose connection that helped the wrist move laterally. Could she probably build something slicker here? Yeah, but she likes her arm. One day she'll have to rebuild the whole thing, but not today.

She wants to let it set before she moves it, so it stays on the work table while Furiosa pulls her goggles up to her forehead and her scarf down around her neck. She hefts a huge canvas tool tote over her shelter, bringing it over to Daryl and letting it plop on the table with a heavy thud. She's got all sorts of tools in there, but they're rougher than what hangs on the walls. Clearly not matching sets. Dirty in some places and rusty in others, but workable. ]

Elara owns the place. She's not too precious over her shit with me, but I wouldn't want someone lending my kit out without asking first either. [ As a point of explanation, while Furiosa towels some errant grease off her stump and hangs dirtied shop towel over her shoulder when she's finished. ] Just clean up and don't head out without saying anything.

[ She hasn't forgotten her "payment" although that's not even why she's asking.

Curious, she can't help but take a peek at his bike. She does a little mental inventory of what she'd deal with first, but all of that is dependent on what you find. Or what you take off someone else on the road. She's not sure Daryl seems like the type to run innocents off the highway to poach parts, but still...

Offhanded and casual: ] Where'd you source your parts?

[trailmark]

( A good thing, then, that Daryl isn't fussed about whatever it is she's doing. Instead, he's taking the time to examine some of the different tools hanging off the wall. It's still strange to him to be able to see so much of this stuff in one place instead of picked over and scattered. He's not sure if he'll ever really get used to it, can't shake the feeling that it's only a matter of time before this whole place goes to shit, too.

But in the mean time, he might as well take advantage of it. Make sure his bike is up and running as best as he can get for the time being in case shit hits the fan.

She draws his focus once she appears, though, brow lifting as she puts the tote on the table. He makes his way closer, opening it to start taking a look at the contents. The other stuff around them might look fancier, but sometimes it's those well worn tools that are actually what you need. He offers a short hum of acknowledgement to what she says, distantly aware of the way she's wiping her stump but more focused on the tools.

A few he takes out and examines, glances at his bike to assess it again before turning his attention back to the different items in his hands and in the tote.)

Won't take long. I'll let you know.

( The question isn't a surprise, and he's sure plenty of people around here have assumed the worst about where he's found things. Doesn't blame them. ) Fringes. People lose plenty out there. And raiders don't need their shit anymore when they're dead.

( Did he kill them for parts? No. But he's not going to pretend a dead body doesn't have plenty of belongings to pick through, either. Finally, he deposits the tools he'd been holding back into the tote, brushing off his hands. )

You wanna take a ride now or later?

( He hasn't forgotten. )

— frank

[trailmark]

( The sound of the fight draws him in - short bursts of motion, not panic, just work. By the time Daryl ghosts around the scene, the man he remembers is already knee-deep in it: one raider choking on his own blood, another pinned and still kicking, a couple already down.

There's another one creeping up behind him with the pipe, doesn't get his swing. Daryl's bolt punches through the side of his skull and drops him mid-stride, body hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

Daryl stays back. He doesn't need to step in closer to recognize the man, or the way he moves. Same violence, same confidence as the last time they'd met. A ruthless efficicency that speaks to experience he'd put money on being born from a place before this. He couldn't tell you if it's some sort of military or mercenary history or something like his own - survival at the end of the world.

He stays quiet where he hangs back, watching this guy, gaze flicking across the fallen bodies carefully. He's dropped enough people here to see that they don't get back up, but it doesn't mean Daryl is taking any chances. He starts forward, reaching for the knife at his side as he does. Blue eyes flick up to Frank briefly but it's clear he isn't going for him, when he instead descends, sinking the blade into the skull of one of the corpse's the other man has already dropped. Then the next.

But before he goes to another one, he stands up, looks carefully at the other man. )

Dead don't stay dead where I'm from. ( Is all he offers before he sinks the blade into temple of the last of the group. Then, he's wiping the bloodied steel against the clothing of the fallen raider before he sheaths the blade again. )

[terrorisms]

( Guess it's a good thing this asshole didn't stay out of the Fringes after all. The changes this place has made to Frank's body might make him bulletproof, but they sure as shit don't make him pipe to the head proof. His skull's just as crackable as it always has been, and the human brain can only withstand a limited number of concussions within a lifetime. He'd really rather not keep adding to that tally.

He recognizes the crossbow bolt before he places the man who shot it. It's a distinct weapon, one you don't see much out here — and when you do, it's rarely with such accuracy.

Dead don't stay dead where I'm from; he's familiar, by now, with the concept of alternate worlds. Places where things are far different from his planet and the Diadem both. Furiosa's place is post-apocalyptic. He's seen enough media to hazard a guess that maybe this guy's place is, too.

One last body sits slumped against the far wall, head lolling to one side, mouth agape. Frank gestures at him. )

That one's still alive. I need to keep it that way for another hour, give or take.

( So don't go sticking your blade through that skull, if you don't mind. Other than that, no judgment. Daryl can do what he needs to do; Frank's not about to get all precious over desecrating the corpses of some shitbags like this who deserve everything they've gotten and more. )

[trailmark]

( Daryl stands a few feet back, crossbow loose in his grip, eyes trackingthe way Frank moves. Not ready for trouble, but not unprepared for it either. This guy hadn't attacked him during their last encounter, and he figures he probably won't here without a reason. And Daryl ain't in any hurry to give him one.

His gaze slides to the slumped raider. Still breathing - barely. His chest barely rising, the sound of his breathing a ragged wheezing. Head lolling, blood slick down one side of his face. Daryl studies him for a moment, jaw tightening. There's no mercy in the look, just calculation. This is the one Frank wants kept alive, and a part of him wonders why. He won't pretend to have an idea of why, but he figures the guy is doing what he's gotta do. What he thinks he needs to. That's a sentiment he understands.

The quiet stretches, and his eyes move between Frank and the half-dead raider like he's trying to see the shape of whatever story's hiding underneath.

Finally, he speaks - short, flat. )

What's so special 'bout him?

( The words carry no curiosity, just suspicion. A man who's seen too many reasons to keep someone breathing for reasons civil people wouldn't consider before the world went to shit back home. Reasons that have become normal in his world. Reasons that are probably normal in this one. )

— logan

[trailmark]

( It's been a quiet morning. Storm's out somewhere for a while, and it gives him plenty of time to work on things without having to maneuver around someone else. His to-do list is pretty short for the day: get the door put up and fix a few spots of the drywall with the little bit of supplies he's been able to scrounge up here and there. The more pressing thing has been the door; he's said it a few times that he doesn't like her spending time here without a real door to keep people - or worse - out. A way to close herself in if she needs to. He thinks she's reminded of it, too, every time he lingers near the door when he heads out and gives her a look. That same one that says he's going to fix the damn door sooner rather than later.

He's crouching near a small pile of an assortment of nuts, bolts, and screws of different sizes. His crossbow is slung across his back, easy to grab and aim if needed, even if so far he hasn't needed it while he's around here. Something he's grateful for; not for his own safety but for Storm's. She's strong, capable, but he worries still.

But the sound of someone opening that heavy curtain over where the door is going to be makes him pause. Blue eyes look up from behind the messy bangs, one hand still where they're hovering over a couple of screws. The other hand adjusts his hold on the screwdriver, twists it in a way that makes it clear he has no problem using it. And when the other man comes into view, he rises slowly to his feet, eyeing the stranger carefully. )

You need somethin'? ( He asks after a long moment, his free hand at the bottom of his sling, ready to turn it. There's something in the way he regards him that says he doesn't trust new people, especially not in a smaller space like this. But he doesn't make any move to do anything besides watch him. )

[carcajous]

[ When Logan jogs up the steps, he can already smell somebody else inside, can hear movement and the sound of nails and bolts gently rolling on the ground. As much as he's been and out of this place, he's made his job more on the scavenging side of things—easiest to send the man who can't die out there—than he has on hammering stuff into place.

Also 'cause every time he does the hammering part, Summers is somehow breathing down his goddamn neck telling how to do it, but that's another thing entirely.

Just past the open curtains, Logan stands with a box tucked under one arm, wearing a curious but cautious expression. He clocks the crossbow, and he clocks the tension, but he also clocks the fact that this guy's got a bunch of tools laid out and he's pretty sure anybody up to no good wouldn't pause to patch the drywall. Gotta say, doesn't look like a guy he'd expect to be helping out with this kinda thing.

Then, neither does Logan. ]

Relax. If I was gonna make trouble, it wouldn't be here. [ Whether it helps or only somehow makes things more suspicious, Logan distinctly carries zero weapons: the only outline in his pocket is his wallet and a set of keys. He slides the box onto a nearby table. ] So who roped you in, was it Storm or Charles?

[trailmark]

( Maybe someone else might find comfort in those words, be able to let some of the tension in his shoulders fade away. But Daryl can't bring himself to let it go that easily when he finds himself latching onto those words: If I was gonna make trouble, it wouldn't be here.

His eyes narrow slightly, jaw flexing, and all he does is watch the way the other man deposits the box on the table. The question, though, is enough that his gaze flicks up and to the man's face when he speaks. But he doesn't answer immediately, stands there still and watchful for a moment.

The guy knows Storm and Charles - it's a good sign. Not enough of one to put Daryl at ease, but it's enough to get him to finally respond. )

I offered.

( Needed the distraction, something to do. An explanation he doesn't offer. His voice is low, but the tight line of his posture, the way he looks more like a dog stretching against the end of its leash, ready to lunge, says it's not because he's nervous or scared. Just watchful, careful. There isn't a long drag of silence after, instead a nod of his head toward the box. )

What's in the box?

— open, scrapyard

[trailmark]

( Daryl's crouched beside his bike, doing what passes for routine maintenance with the handful of tools he's got. The chain's been grinding for days, and the replacement part he found while scavenging isn't a perfect fit, but it'll do if he works it right. He's used to a world where nothing ever fits clean anymore, and he's learned to make do. He's always made do.

The air smells like rust and old oil, hot metal baking under the sun. Around him, the Scrapyard hums with half-dead engines and sharp voices bartering over scraps. He tunes it out, focused on the click and scrape of his wrench, the steady rhythm keeping his head quiet.

Then another sound cuts through. A vehicle sputtering, coughing like it's choking on its last breath. He looks up, squinting past a row of busted hoods until he spots the source: someone standing there, confusion written all over 'em, like maybe they thought the thing would fix itself. The same way he's seen people on the side of the roads all the time in this place. He watches for a while, resting his arm on his knee. Could be nothing. Could be trouble. Hard to tell the difference in a place like this. Still, there's something about the way they hover - uncertain, frustrated - that keeps him from turning away and getting back to it. Doesn't hurt anything to help them, he reminds himself, rocking back slightly where he's crouched. Plenty of people around in case it's a set up, too.

He sighs under his breath, tucking the wrench into his back pocket, and wipes his hands on a rag. His crossbow's propped nearby, within reach. Always within reach. And he grabs it out of habit even as he heads over.

He steps out from between the rows of scrap, boots crunching against gravel as he heads their way. )

Pop the hood, ( he says as he reaches the vehicle, stretching out hand to knock his knuckles against it a couple times. )

[krazed]

[ The thing about Harley is that willful ignorance isn't truly an absence of intelligence. She knows what she did, she knows why the old stingray is sputtering and heaving like her after too much tequila and queso con carne, but telling that to the oily guy in front of her would be pointless. ]

Not too early for Trunk r' Treat, am I?

[ It's oil, and her attention to detail is behind the eight ball when it comes to her lady love vehicle. The car's taken some beatings, some clearly more recent; there are a couple of tell-tale bullet holes, and a suspicious javelin in the backseat, along with some pantyhose, and a bra draped over the driver's side headrest.

The blood on the back bumper isn't hers, and it stands out bright crimson against the chrome. Everything else is stock, or mismatched matte from her own provisions and adjustments to the would-be battle cruiser. ]

sorry for the delay!

[trailmark]

( Daryl doesn't step right into her space, just leans a little to the side to get a look under the hood. His gaze wanders over the rest of the car while he's at it: bullet holes, fresh scarring in the metal, blood streaking the bumper that's definitely not engine-related. He takes it all in the same way he does the ruins of what was whenever they'd find something new back home - slow, steady, no emotion on the surface.

He's not judging, just cataloguing. The way a man raised on rust and busted transmissions always does.

When she drops that line, one brow goes up. )

Trunk r' what?

( He straightens up, rag hanging from his back pocket, eyes cutting from her to the car again. Trunk r' Treat. Sounds like one of those church parking lot things he used to see signs for as a kid, half the congregation handing out candy from the beds of pickups. His family never went to anything like that, weren't the type. Didn't get invited, neither.

But her car? It looks less like something for some community get together and more like she's been mowing down walkers. He nods his head towards her bumper before leaning down under her hood to take a look at a few things. )

They deserve it?

( He means whoever - whatever - she hit. But there's no judgement in it. )

— open, fringes

[trailmark]

( Daryl's been moving along the edge of a collapsed overpass, crossbow in hand, when the noise cuts through. Shouting. Words with a cold, cruel edge. A single cry that gets choked off too fast. He knows that sound: it's the kind that means somebody's already on the ground and somebody else's got a weapon they're ready to use.

His boots don't make a sound as he rounds the wreck of a burned-out truck, steps light, smooth. Two men. Raiders by the looks of them makeshift armor, one with a rifle, the other dragging a knife across his palm like he's warming up for fun. The third figure between them barely moves. It's a familiar sight that makes something burn hot under his skin, jaw tight.

He raises the crossbow, the weight of it poised against his shoulder in a motion that comes as naturally as breathing.

The first bolt takes the one with the knife through the temple. The second flies before the body even drops. A clean pass through the other's skull, the sound flat and final with only the smallest splatter of blood.

He waits a beat, eyes narrowed, watching for twitching fingers, the wrong kind of motion. He's learned not to trust what lies still. Doesn't know if things here come back, but he's not about to find out.

After a moment, he steps out from the cover of rust and shadow, retrieving each bolt in turn, taking the time to wipe the mess on them across the fallen's clothing. He wipes the bolts clean on a sleeve and slides them home into the quiver mounted on his crossbow. Smooth. Thoughtless. Just another motion as if the crossbow itself is a part of his body.

Only then does he glance toward the one who'd been on the ground. He keeps a few feet between them, the quiet stretching thin. Doesn't say much. Just watches. Steady, assessing, like he's waiting for proof they're not about to turn a weapon on him. After a moment, he reaches out a hand to them where they're splayed on the ground. )

Come on, ( he says, low, almost an afterthought. There's no warmth to it, no attempt to offer comfort or any indication of the reasoning behind the save. )

cw: panic attacks, attempted sexual assault

[windriding]

[ It took a lot to take someone like Storm down. It should take a lot, given what she can do, and what she's been trained to do. But even she has blindspots, and some things still take her by surprise. Enclosed spaces tended to do it best - but she never did well when someone managed to get their hands on her neck. Her powers normally come to her as a reflex, but as soon as someone had her tackled face first to the ground, or wrapping their hands around her windpipe, things tended to slow down.

The sky still rumbles her distress for her. A rolling thunder that comes from far, far away. It's slow - too slow, too far, where is the sky? where is her lightning? - and she feels the weight of a heavyset man press her deeper into the ground. The back of her mind knows those hands are searching her for valuables - but the front of her brain is panicking and telling her something else. Where is your power?

But suddenly, the world shifts. Time tilts back how it's supposed to run. The raider behind her slumps off and away, followed by another thump against the ground. Something dark and hot trickles down her skin, but she realizes she can breathe again... and that someone else was talking to her.

Her eyes are still edged with a glowing, ghostly white light when she looks up at him, just barely recognizing that he was waiting.

She swallows, shakes her head to clear it, and moves to get to her feet. ]

... Thank you.

[trailmark]

( The weather overhead doesn't strike Daryl as odd. Doesn't even occur to him that the rumbles from the skies above are become of the woman in front of him. But he does glance up at the sky, wondering briefly if a storm might be coming and if it might be better for him to cut short his current run out here. He'll figure that out in a few. The more pressing thing, though, is her.

A woman who has some weird shit going on with her eyes that makes his hand flex on the grip of his crossbow. Not a walker, though, given how much control she has over her movements and the words that eventually come. Still, it's new. Unusual. If he wasn't already keeping a careful distance from her given the circumstances, those eyes might have been enough to do it instead. But still, he doesn't stay far. Only takes a couple deliberate steps back to give her a respectable amount of distance but still more than close enough that if he needs to reach for her for any reason, he can.

Her thanks, though, is met with a short hum of acknowledgement, and those blue eyes do a cursory sweep of the length of her body before returning back to her face from behind messy bangs. )

They hurt you? ( He prompts after a moment, frown deepening. There's nothing obvious that he can see, but he's dealt with sons of bitches like this plenty to know they do more damage than you know sometimes. )

— open, panorama (jolly roger)

[trailmark]

( Jolly Roger smells like oil and metal, gunpowder ghosts clinging to the air long after the last round's been fired. There's more weapons around him that he hasn't seen in a long time. It almost doesn't feel real. But still, the sight of patchwork of revolvers and half-cleaned automatics is a welcome one.

Daryl's examining some of the stock, rolling the weight of a handgun in his palm. It's older, scratched up, weighted just enough to feel balanced in his hands. He's not in the market for much, but habits die slow. There's comfort in the feel of something solid that packs a harder punch than his crossbow.

He sets it down beside another weapon - sleeker, lighter, the kind that looks good but the grip isn't quite right in his hands. Someone else is standing a few feet down the counter, doing the same dance he is, and the sound of their hands moving draws his gaze from behind the messy bangs. He watches them, trying to figure out if they're not sure what they're looking for or if they're not finding whatever it is they're looking for. Maybe not liking what they're finding.

Could go either way, he figures. But he understands that not every weapon suits everyone. )

Here, ( he offers finally, carefully handing over one of the pistols he'd been examining a moment ago. ) Try this one.

( No pitch. No explanation. Just an offer and a steady look. )

[pagings]

[ karen had known for some time that she was in need of more ammunition. after her mannequin had gone on a bit of a spree around the city, she'd been sitting with an empty cartridge for weeks. wade had jumped in to help where he could, enough that she was never truly empty-handed, but she doesn't love depending on someone else in that way. does she have a handful of people who would have jumped at the chance to help her out with this? yes. but she's a big girl and can buy her own damn bullets.

or - well. she is now. it took a couple of weeks to save up enough that karen felt comfortable going shopping. but now that she has enough joolies not to look like an idiot, she wanders to one of the more 'reliable' places she'd heard about. she knows how the city works by now, knows that she can't expect too much, but she thinks that when it comes to 9mm bullets, she can at least find something.

which leads her to where she is now - curious, more than anything, as she stands over one of the long tables in the middle of the store. there are more guns around her than she think she's ever seen in one place, a variety of sizes, shapes, weights, even years. she's no expert, she knows her own pistol well and how to keep it clean and functional, and knows the basics of handling guns, but what each piece does? what makes them different? is lost on her. she is turning one over in her palm, frowning a little to herself as she tries to figure out what it's even called and why it weighs so much, when she hears his voice.

karen looks up, realizing that he's talking to her, and sees the pistol he's offering to her. she momentarily feels a little embarrassed (did she really look that lost?), setting the one in her hand down on the table and reaching over to take the one he's offering. ] Thanks. [ she says with a small smile, immediately noticing how much nicer it feels in her hand. she looks it over for a few more moments, immediately feeling more comfortable with it in her hands, and letting that smile linger as she glances back over to him, too. ] Do you work here?

[trailmark]

( The longer he watches her, the more he's thinking she might not be the most familiar with all of this. Before the world went to shit back home, most people didn't see the need for a weapon. Had to learn the hard way after the dead started walking that you'd need one to survive. He thinks that's the reality for some people here, too. Just like he's encountered a lot of people who've never had to drive a car before, he figures this will be the same.

There's no judgement, though. Daryl just watches quietly, and he can't help the thought that she reminds him of Andrea. Beth. Lighter hair, lighter eyes, pretty with softer edges. There'd been a time where he'd think people like her didn't have any business holding a gun, worrying about shit like that. But he knows better now. Danger and death comes for everyone eventually.

Least he can do in situations like this is make sure they get what they need. What they do with it after is their business.

The question is met with a shake of the head, a soft sound after first. And then, after a couple more seconds, he finally says: ) Nah. Just seein' what they've got. ( There's a small shrug of his shake of his head before his gaze goes back to the stretch of the tables in front of them. Some of it, he thinks, looks like something out of a red neck's wet dream. Most of it looks like shit he coulda used back home.

Back home where he'd lost Beth. But instead of entertaining that thought, he's looking back at her, first down at her hands and then back to her face. )

You lookin' for something?

— open, any location

[trailmark]

( The area's loud in the way all desperate places are with voices overlapping, metal clanging, the scrape of feet on concrete and items being shuffled around. Daryl keeps to the side, eyes moving over the stalls without really seeing them as he drifts along slowly. It's a newer place for him, a chance for him to see what kind of items he can find and the kind of insane shit people might want for them.

Then a voice cuts through the noise. Someone trying to barter a bit desperately or frustrated. The kind of tone that says whatever they're after isn't just a luxury. It's important to them. Maybe medicine. Maybe parts for something they have. Maybe something else entirely. Details don't matter much.

He listens without meaning to, gaze sliding toward the sound. The merchant's voice sharpens, the conversation faltering. It's about to go bad. He's seen it enough times to recognize the rhythm.

Daryl shifts his weight, thumb brushing the strap of his crossbow across his chest. He should walk on. Has every reason to. But he doesn't. Maybe he's just feeling restless, needs an excuse to get out of this place and step back into the life of traveling, finding, surviving.

He steps closer, voice steady when it finally breaks through the air between them. )

Tell me where it is. ( A beat, glancing towards the other person then back at the merchant. ) We'll find it.

( He doesn't add more than that. Doesn't need to. The offer hangs there, quiet but sure, waiting to see if they're willing to take it. )

[diametrically]

[ The universal sign for a conversation being over is someone turning their back and walking away. But Cassian has never been one to take that as an answer - especially when he's got his mind set on something. The medicine isn't even for him, mind you. Anyone else more self-serving than him would question why he bothers. Panorama is a dog eat dog city and most of its residents are living joolie to joolie to begin with. Added debt, added bother isn't usually worth the trouble for most.

Unfortunately Cassian isn't most. And once he'd heard about the old man's troubles (his eyesight is failing, his mobility had certainly seen better days) over several days of repairing appliances around the motel block he stayed in, well. He can no longer turn a blind eye to those that need help.

What should have been a straightforward transaction has turned into something a little more windy. And while he knows that this momentary roadblock is more akin to a pause in his plans, it's no less frustrating if the annoyed breath that exits his mouth is any indication as he turns away from the stall too.

Turns away right into a somewhat familiar face. Recognition flits across his expression, Cassian immediately recalling having seen him around the Scrapyard. With no shortage of work however, it wasn't necessarily easy to have a conversation while on the clock. ]

That might not be so easy. There's a reason I've been going to him.

sorry for the delay!

[trailmark]

( Daryl can't say he recognizes this guy. This place is all still new, still unfamiliar, and there's more and more new things to take in and remember every damn day. It makes him miss being out in the woods, the quiet stretch of the forest, the low growl of walkers. Almost felt simpler to focus on surviving instead of all the shit around here.

But at least, offering to help here gives him a chance to focus on instead of everything that's new. Doesn't matter that whatever it is is probably going to be a challenge. )

Shit ain't ever easy. ( Daryl replies with a soft sigh, gaze cutting away briefly, watching the vendor nearby. A guy to be aware of for the future. But the more important person is standing right in front of him.

His attention swivels back, expectant. )

Tell me what it is, we'll figure it out. ( We again. A persistent and helpful hand whether Cassian wants it or not. )

[sanguineus]

[ Astarion is also watching the exchange, albeit for very different reasons--it's the same ones that he turns on the television box in his room when he's bored. It's entertainment.

Desperation is never a good look, even if it's one he's also worn at times. But it doesn't mean he can't find some amusement when it's someone else's problem. Astarion purses his lips, tutting from a distance. The merchant, understandably, doesn't want to lose out on their own hard-earned coin. (Erm, paper bills, stupid things.) The person trying to barter should stop appealing for emotion and just steal the damn thing if they want it so badly. Let's see how badly they want it...

But then, a hero emerges. Astarion raises a brow as he taps his chin. To what end? For this random person's benefit...or to make himself the middle-man to broker a transaction for a profit?

Oh, it's him, isn't it? Astarion recognizes that crossbow. The masks can hide some things, but certainly not that. Interesting.

So Astarion slides right up like he's been there the whole time. Of course, he couldn't care less if the merchant or desperate person get what they want. But they don't know that. ]

Of course we will.

[ He smile at Mr. Crossbow and then at the other two, trying to use one of his more charming flavors. ]

Now, what was it you were looking for, my dear?

[ The would-be patron looks confused for a moment, but they won't balk at the opportunity. ]

Antibiotics.

[ Oh no. ]

The missus, she's...

[ Oh dear. ]

Well, it's a good thing this man here knows exactly where to get those kinds of. Things.

[ It's your show, Mr. Crossbow. ]

sorry i suck :c

[trailmark]

( This guy, again. They might have been masked up, but the voice is undeniable. Daryl had listened to the guy prattle on enough to recognize it. But he does take a moment to regard the man, up close and without anything hiding either of their faces. Something about that smile makes his fingers twitch. He's got a punchable face, that's for damn sir.

But the more important part is the patron, whatever it is he's looking. Antibiotics. No damn surprise. Back home surrounded by walkers and in this place, of course it's fucking medicine. Someone else might hear that and throw in the towel before they even get started, knowing how goddamn hard it's going to be to find medicine around this place. But Daryl's never been anything but persistent. Willing to go on a crusade for baby food for someone else's kid, willing to follow the same cold trail for someone's daughter. Too soft a heart for someone with such a ragged exterior, maybe.

He spares the other man one quick look before his attention fixes on the patron. A couple quick questions - what's the issue, what kind of antibiotics she needs. This is going to be harder than finding a needle in a fucking haystack.)

Yeah. And this guy— ( not at all shy about indicating his former masked partner, ) —is gonna help. ( A sharp, expectant look toward Astarion as the patron nods, steps awkwardly away, confused about the exchange. )

Get your shit and let's go.

( Expectant still as he nods his head towards his bike not far from them before he's heading out. )

— open, wildcard

[trailmark]

feel free to drop any specific prompts you're feeling with daryl here!

you can find him at the scrapyard, exploring the fringes/diffusion zones, or wandering in quieter places. down for him to do anything from help with cars or weapons, explore with others, or swoop in for a save.