Rocky Roads

Clarke Davenport || 33 || Earth

[thedukeofhastingssexyrobe]

#Regé-JeanBond

[popculturebuzz]

[clarke-davenport]

sybilsylvie​:

∞

Sylvie tried to remember, then, what she’d seen, if she’d seen anything worthwhile in the time she was out there, but nothing came to mind. Of course she hadn’t been particularly concerned with the landscape and its features, as sublime as they might have been. “Just trees. Nothing but the foliage, really - I didn’t see anything else the whole time. Like I was the only breathing thing,” she fixed her eyes on the beast as she spoke, fully aware that her experience was borderline impossible in a jungle that was obviously teeming with life. It didn’t make sense to her, either, but the island had made clear by now its various games. 

“It’s kind of you to share,” she caught his eye and attempted to smile, her kinder nature resurfacing along with a natural instinct to steer the conversation towards something less… heavy. Something easier to deal with, something she didn’t have to feel so angry about. “A broth, right. I’m used to the kind that comes out of a box, but -” But what? Her fire attunement already had her halfway there, but Sylvie had never been a skilled cook. “But someone should know how to fix that, right?” 

Clarke looked over his shoulder, looking at the dark edges of the jungle on the horizon. It was mysterious place, that’s for sure. He knew his way inside a bit, but hardly enough to call himself an expert. “Really, nothing? That sounds like a nice walk through the park.” He chuckled. It was hard to imagine that the jungle could be that uneventful, but maybe it was for the best. Not every visit to that place needed to be gamble on life.

“Yeah, it’s no big deal. Guess we have to look out for each other right? Each in our own way.” Clarke fiercely believed that everyone ought to do their part, something that suited their talents. There were so many things that one needed to survive that Clarke couldn’t do if his life depended on it... and it did. If he did this, he got the help he needed for the other stuff. It was a simple, but neat system. “I never even had it, until I came to the island. We never had broth at my house. My mom called it ‘poor people food’.” She was sweet and fun like that. “But, it’s good nutrition and I guess we are poor. No one here has any money and if they do.. well, it’s absolutely worthless.” Clarke laughed.

[clarke-davenport]

libbyblum​:

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ

The guy – God, what’s his name – answers the snark of her comment with sincerity. Poetics, even, and Libby raises a brow. He longs to be in a city again. How Dickens-y. “How long’ve you been here?” She lands on, tilting her head. After all, her longings for cities had disappeared a long while ago – except, of course, when a boat sat on the horizon, beckoning them all. (Except it wasn’t a boat and it wasn’t beckoning and it… was what?) “On the island, I mean.” Libby clarifies, maybe belatedly. “Just trying to… get a gauge on everyone, y’know?”

The label – castaway, as if they aren’t all castaways – makes her sigh a bit. But after two months, you get used to it. “Yup, one of the jungle-folks. Tree-people. Castaways. Whatever you prefer.” Snark returns, as per usual, but Libby marks it with a small smirk. That melts away to allow for a nod at his mention of distance. Finally, someone reasonable. Not another islander so goddamn determined to run into the Labyrinth like so many of them seem to be. “God, you’re so right!” She laughs, shoes skimming the sand involuntarily with the thought. “I’ve been tripping over tree roots for thirty years, and now it’s all so… soft.” Libby shrugs. 

“Do you have a place on the sand?” She replies to his mention of treehouse, contemplating her own return home now. (Home, because she has one of those. Easy to get used to, even easier to marvel at.) And then she sighs, her turning over thought toppling forward now before she can stop it, and she tries to frame it as politeness: “Did I ever introduce myself? I’m Libby. Or, uh, castaway. Whatever works.”

There’s room for one more question, right? Or maybe a few. “Is there like, a schedule? For the hunting and whatnot? Or do you just… wander off on your own?” She’s got to be helpful somewhere, right? Napping all the time is proving to be a little boring. Who’d have thought?

Clarke looked over at the woman, before looking back into the fire. “About two years.” He said, almost dramatically sad. “I know, I know. It’s not that long. I know there are some who’ve been here, for like, a millenium, or whatever. But I don’t know.” He shrugged it off. Maybe it was a realisation that had been happening for a while; he really wasn’t ever going back. There would be never be again a night at a club, followed by an after party downtown with a hangover the next morning in a comfortable, fluffy bed. That, and a million other little things. Here, it was just sand. All the time.

Het fiery response brought back his attention and looked at her. The smirk gave away that she was not really biting his head off, but he wondered if there was anything to the snark. He guess he could relate to discrimination, which he supposed, this was just another form of it. The others. The castaways. The people who didn’t belong. Was it any different than the colored people in the US, and God knows where else, had to deal with? “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Was all he could reply. The mood took a positive turn as she laughed. She had a good laugh. “Right? I mean, I don’t enjoy the tripping, but solid ground is good ground. The only downside is that the vibrations are a lot more intense and that really fires up some headaches.” He laughed. The sand muffled the vibrations by a lot, as if wearing earplugs or something. Then again, feeling those vibrations in the jungle did make him feel... sharper.

Clarke shrugged. “Barely. It’s a little tent, but I wouldn’t call it a home. I never really got around to settling, I guess. I’ve been thinking about building an addition to the butcher’s shed on the farm, where I work, but I don’t know.” Perhaps there was a part of him still expecting to get out of here, which would make building a home seem kind of pointless. “What about you? Now that you’re not in the jungle anymore, you have anywhere to stay?” It couldn’t’ve been easy, starting over on a beach. The jungle, while dangerous, seemed a lot more recourseful for housing. Clarke flashed a polite smile. “Nice to meet you, I’m Clarke.” Her name sounded very familiar. “Wait... Libby? As in.. Tomas’ wife? Oh my God..” He smile turned into a wide grin.

He shook his head. “If there is one, I’m not keeping to it. I go in and get out whenever I feel like it. I just make sure at least someone knows where I am. I’m a pretty decent hunter, if I say so myself.” He sad, smiling at himself, mentally patting his own back. “Why? You wanna go back in?”

[clarke-davenport]

manojoaquin​:

♟

“Oh no, no I don’t take credit for discovery.  Libby - their leader - she did that all herself.  She discovered me three years ago in the jungle.  We were both lost, she saved my life…then we went our separate ways.  And then her group showed up right on this beach.  A miracle, really.” Joaquin said, happy to explain.  He didn’t ask why Clarke didn’t know; everyone was dealing with something, and to Joaquin it was often hard keeping up with the comings and goings of others.  He simply assumed Clarke was the same way.

“Tired of living?” Joaquin helpfully supplied.  He’d been asked this before, by others, so it wasn’t much of a surprise.  Granted, the question now took on a whole different flavour, in light of Matthew’s unexpected and disturbing demise.

“I suppose sometimes I do feel tired, but you must understand.  When I arrived on this island, I felt a new calling, yes?  Like being called into God’s service as a monk.  Now my service extends to Meridium.  I believe I’m still on a journey and that reassures me to keep on living.  I know it hasn’t been easy for many others…”  Joaquin hummed, sadly, in remembrance of everyone who lost - or took - their lives on the island.  Everyone who still lived here, but only as an empty, numb shell of themselves.

“Why do you think you ended up here, if I may ask?  What purpose you might have, my dear boy, I hope you stay on that path.  Time works much differently on the island, you’ll find.  I’m sure two years can sometimes seem like an eternity for you, and sometimes seem only like it’s just begun.”

Joaquin smiled benignly at Clarke’s surprise, not wanting to alarm or chase away the boy.  “It is what I believe.  She is here with me.  She is everywhere of course, but María is my constant friend in all things.”  He wasn’t sure how much Clarke understood about manifestations of la Virgen, of miraculous phenomena like icons of Maria weeping, or stigmata, or angel visitations.  Even during Joaquin’s sheltered life, he had followed news articles on such happenings around the world.  So when it happened to him on Meridium, he accepted it for what it was: a miracle.  But not everyone believed, and Joaquin was not a missionary.

Joaquin laughed then, sedate because he was still in mourning.  “I suppose I do seem like I have my head in the clouds, no?  But I am fire, and it is truly a gift.  I am happy to see you’ve embraced your attunement as well, dear boy!”

They arrived at the fame, Joaquin still chuckling, cheered as Clarke called him both ‘weird’ and ‘alright’ in the same breath.  “Thank you, gracias, merci beaucoup, my new young friend.  Well - you perform your butchering, and then meet me here, yes?”  Joaquin paused by a table, where there was a cold firepit near by.  “I shall handle the rest.”

Libby, Libby, Libby... Why did that name sound so familair to Clarke? Then it hit him. “Wait, Libby? As in Tomas’ wife, Libby?” He repeated the name, just to be making sure he got it right. He had heard of the miracle of the reunion of the Farm owner and his wife. The story had stuck with him, it gave Clarke renewed hope of finding his sibling along the mass. No luck yet, but everyone was so scattered already, he figured it might just be bad luck. As least, that’s what he believed. It was a real downer to have that hope crushed, again.

“Yes, yes, new calling sure. But for over one hundred years? I don’t want to sound grim, Joaquin.. but I can’t imagine finding this island life all that rewarding for that long.” Clarke sighed, a little deeper than he intended. He tried to shake it off and regained his upright posture and a peaceful expression. “Sorry about that, didn’t mean to bring the whole mood down with me.” He laughed it off. Clarke shrugged. “I’m not sure if I have a purpose, like you do. I’m not even sure I believe in having a purpose. Maybe it’s all a big coincidence and it means nothing.” Clarke thought out loud. He turned back to the man. “What exactly do you think is your purpose?”

The whole Virgin Mary thing was really unexpected and oddly specific. Clarke was deeply religious, sure, but maybe he was too modern to blindly accept that it might all be really true. “I don’t know, man. It all seems a bit hard to believe. Seeing the Virgin Mary? How’s that even possible?” But Clarke realized that poking holes into the ideas of realism wouldn’t work, not on this island. Stranger things had happened, like him being given powers, for example. “Wait, is she the reason why we’re immortal? Why we’re connected with the elements?”

As they walked, Clarke wondered something. “Hey, so you’ve been here a long-ass time. What can you do with your attunement? Are you like the most advanced fire attuned here? I feel like I hardly know anything about it, and apart from the constant vibrations, I really have no idea how to connect to it. Maybe I haven’t embraced it as much as you think.”

Clarke followed the darker path to the butcher’s shed. It was more remote than the other buildings. Clarke didn’t mind that, he could understand people wanting a bit more distance from it and it gave him a good opportunity to retreat for a while. He laid down the body of the animal and lit a torch nearby for seeing. All the while, he was occupied with the spiritual conversations he just had with Joaquin.

[clarke-davenport]

What do you think will break you?

“HEY!” He yelled. “You shut your damn mouth. I know I’m as pretty as a vase, but I’m not as breakable.”

[thedukeofhastingssexyrobe]

That coat is so🔥

[bergaramadejs]

insp.

[thedukeofhastingssexyrobe]

[clarke-davenport]

dreams-of-a-lark​:

☁︎︎☽☀︎︎☾☁︎︎

Lark shrugged, “In this place you have take what you can get were you can get it. Sometimes that means sacrificing a few comforts and expectations, doesn’t it?” Was the comment needlessly pointed? Maybe. But Lark smiled innocently as though it wasn’t and watched Clarke fiddle mindlessly with a handful sand. He gave an exaggerated stretch and flopped back to sprawl out by the fire, the cool sand soothing on his aching back.

The question took him a bit by surprise, that Clarke had experienced so little of that nightmare, well… he must have had the luck of a leprechaun. “Just the island doing its tricky thing, I suppose. Bloody madness. It really didn’t affect you at all? What god’s dick did you have to suck to be so fortunate?” He turned on his side and let out a strained groan, “Might need you to point me in their direction,” he added with a wink and rubbed his neck. His stomach grumbled and he nodded over at Clarke’s game, “So you just gonna let that beast attract flies or what?” 

If you asked Clarke, he would deem Lark a fire attuned, the guy lacked more subtlety than a lightning strike it seemed. No matter, Clarke was a good enough actor to play dumb. “Yeah, well, seems like we’re sacrificing a lot on this island then, hm?” He briefly glared over at Lark, figuring he was doing yet another thing to get Clarke’s attention. He wouldn’t give in.

Clarke shook his head and shrugged. “You’re really not gonna share those stories? Wow, must’ve gotten you good then. You usually never shut up.” He snarked, almost passive-aggressively referencing their little mistake a few months back. Maybe conversing with Lark when he was tired wasn’t the smartest thing to do. He wasn’t as sharp as he should be in order to avoid his verbal minefield. “Wouldn’t have mattered, man. You would’ve sucked it long before any of us ever got near that.” He laughed softly. Yes, that was the healthy approach; deflect and make him out to be some kind of slut. Clarke looked over Lark. “Did someone ever tell you that you have really nice face for punching?” He gave him a bitter smile to accompy his banter.

[clarke-davenport]

ameliaxdalton​:

It got dark early in the jungle. Generally speaking, Amelia didn’t mind that. It kept a lot of people out and she’d become adept at making fires, and even very rudimentary candles, but sometimes… Well, it was nice to watch the sun set. She had some sewing to do- the long velvet skirt she’d been wearing upon arriving to the island was a patchwork of other materials by now, but she refused to let the garment fall apart- and there was no one lingering around the pit as there might usually be at this hour.

So Amelia steeled herself and took her supplies out onto the beach, curling up by the warmth of the fire to begin mending her clothes. She tensed up as the vibrations of the ground signalled someone drawing closer but tried to focus on her task, hand curling tigether around the sewing needle.

She glanced over at the corpse and the living man who dropped down after it, more disturbed by his presence than the dead animal. Amelia tended to stick to fish and the smaller game available, since she was only feeding herself, but after so long on the island the sight of these things didn’t bother her. She lifted her hands to display the skirt and sewing needle, “just some repairs.” She explained with a shrug, “looks like you’ve been busier.”

Clarke lost concentration for a moment, gazing off into the flickering fire. He was tired, he felt it. It wasn’t much of a surprise, given it being a hunting day and the vibrations he used to perform said hunting always had a tiring effect on him. The fire felt like a warm embrace, a sense of home and relaxation. His body picked up on that and instantly dialed down the adrenaline.

After a while, he gazed over at the girl and was mesmerized by the task she was performing. Such fine work, especially compared to the ‘needle’ he was working with; the spear he used for hunting. “It might be more tiring, but I’m willing to bet you get more done in a day than I will.” He said, his face turning back towards the fire again. “Do you only do repairs or do you make new clothing, too?” He wondered. “I got plenty of leather skin back at the farm, if you ever wanna use some.” He shrugged.

[clarke-davenport]

sagetomashardy​:

===***===

Tomas pushed his fingers against his mouth, eyebrows screwing upwards in consternation as Clarke drew his attention to the splayed-open carcass of that pesky boar, chopped and broken on the table. Long pig, his brain supplied not-at-all helpfully, and Tomas very forcefully shoved down any images of Matthew’s split-open chest that tried to rise in his mind alongside it. 

He didn’t consider himself an especially sentimental man, and death was far from a novelty, but all the same Tomas thought that maybe he’d try one of his own sleeping draughts tonight. That autopsy was starting to haunt the edges of his subconscious a little too assiduously. 

“That’s the general idea,” Tomas said out loud, instead of any of that. “Besides which I’m old and tough and terrible eating. A bad outcome for all involved especially me.”

The notion of Clarke – young, handsome, cocky – flirting with Libby was much more entertaining to think about, and Tomas snickered at the kid’s brassiness. He liked Clarke, liked the forthright attitude and insane level of (at least outward) confidence, and on a more calculating level, Tomas thought it was a good feature for the island’s butcher to be such a genial person. People tended to either get suspicious or stay suspicious for a long time when faced with somebody who was good at their job, particularly when that job involved a lot of sharp objects and blood and bone, but Clarke was as nonthreatening as you could get. 

“Go for it, chief,” Tomas said, waving his hand in front of his face and using his attunement to waft away some of the heavy blood smell in the air. “Libby could use some amusement. And my wife’s well worth the attention. Always has been.” His smile got a little softer, more private. “I’m curious to see if she’d find you as charming as you find yourself, never mind pretty. We can all see what you look like, come on. No surprises there.”

For all of Tomas’ distaste for dealing with animal processing on the whole, it was fascinating to see the ease and fucking … flair that Clarke displayed with his work. The skin slid away from flesh like skimming silk, and Tomas answered belatedly, “–oh, y’know. Tons of uses for intestines from bigger animals like this. Lark’s been working on a bunch of new spices and you’ve got all this meat, I figured we could give sausage-making a go. If we dry and smoke them right they’ll keep for ages. And there’s some jars I want sealed up tighter than I can manage with woven lids – if I stretch some pig gut over the mouth and tie it on, let it dry, it works like gangbusters.”

Clarke chuckled, waving the knife around with an eerie flexibility in his wrist. “Well, we still need something to feed the animals. And I bet your skin would make for a nice bag or something.” He teased the man. Clarke could safely say that Tomas would be one of the last people he would hurt. He owed a lot to him, he had helped giving his island life purpose. And he needed that. There was a time when Clarke couldn’t see the point of being on an island, away from everything he knew and loved, only to never die of old age. He missed the city life, the parties, the social contacts, his home, his privacy, his matress. Yet, it seemed getting a job and being appreciated for it was enough to turn that around over time.

Clarke turned to face Tomas, his famous left brow arching sharply. It was sceptical surprise that could be read in his expression. “Yeah, yeah, that’s cute and all.. What did you mean by she could use the amusement.” The knife was now pointing towards Tomas and his eyes narrowed as if he meant to pull out a confession. “Well, that remains to be seen then, hm?” He spoke in a challenging, but amusing tone. “Well, I am three times runner-up on Meridum’s next top model. I’m really not surprised y’all think me pretty.” A cocky, wide grin appeared on his face as he briefly made eye contact, before letting the knife going back to work. Joking about it was for sure more easier than saying the words thank you.

Clarke listened appreciatively as Tomas told him, with such passion at that, what the material could be used for. He never knew there were so many applications for something that he’d deemed as trash already. “I’m glad I don’t have to think about all that stuff. Seems pretty complicated to me. One of the few good things about this is island, is that’s less complicated than society. Y’know, apart from the immortality, magic, jungle people and mindfuck fogs.” He shrugged casually.

[clarke-davenport]

manojoaquin​:

♟

“I have also been called odd many times before.  Basket-case does not sound so bad now,”  Joaquin said, his entire face wrinkling in a smile.  “You do not strike me as an unkind man, and I will gladly take your word for it!  Okay María–?” He looked over to his right, seeking looking for confirmation from nobody.  When he seemed to have gotten it, he nodded and smiled at Clarke again.  “Madre says okay.”

Because, in truth, Joaquin wasn’t much good at discerning people.  Especially  the more modern the new arrivals to the island were.  The immense variety of people in the world, who ended up here - Joaquin simply couldn’t keep up.  He’d consult with Matthew and Aurélie instead, relying on their similarly old (but more savvy) perspectives.

And, of course, Joaquin relied on the opinion of María.

“Ah, many discoveries!  The recently arrived castaways - I met their leader in the jungle at one point.   I nearly died, but she saved my life; and I’m feeling much better now.  And I met many animals, so many beautiful birds and snails!  And mushrooms.  Clarke, my son, mushrooms are very important. Here - I have some in one of my pockets…”  Joaquin began patting around, trying to find them.  “I apologise, this robe is very new and sometimes I forget where I put things…until I sit on them.  Ha ha!  No mind, I’ll find them later.”

Two years seemed a very short time, and Joaquin looked very impressed.  “You seem to have adapted marvellously, Clarke.  Quite better than many, sadly.  I hope you’ll be able to mentor some of the newer arrivals, if that suits you.  I’m sure they could learn a lot from you.”

Standing up, Joaquin dusted his robes.  “I’ve been here for one hundred and eighteen years.  Soon to be one-nineteen, this year….”  Usually Joaquin would be cheerful and positive about this; but in the wake of Matthew’s sudden violent death, he felt sombre about his age.

They strolled along, and Clarke inquired about Joaquin’s favourite subject.  He smiled to his right first, then replied.  “La Madre de Dios.  Mother of God - she is María, la Virgen, yes?  She came to me as a vision, over one hundred years ago and She hasn’t left my side since.  I am very blessed, dear child, to have a friend like Her.  I know - it seems foolish that Santa María would bother to spend all Her time with me, but.  Well…”  He wasn’t sure how deeply to go into the religious aspect of things.  Some people got very upset; with good reason, he’d sadly learned. 

“…like the Holy Spirit, la Madre is everywhere.  All over God’s earth.”

He made a noise of joy when Clarke said his attunement was earth.  “And mine is fire!  In the old days, back in my homeland, we had a way of roasting goat in an underground firepit.  Would you like to try it?  The meat becomes tender and soft, dear Clarke.  We can build the pit together.  How fortuitous, our meeting!”

Clarke gave a weak smile back. He was delighted at the compliment, but he pondered the possibility of it not being true. Back in Atlanta, he was kind of a pill. The things he did and said against his family. He doubted Joaquin would still consider him unkind if he had met him back then. He shook it off and brightened up his smile. “You’re alright, Maria.” He nodded.

“For real? I had no idea you were the guys that discovered them. That must’ve been quite a shock, man.” He spoke, finding himself to be even more amazed by the jungle story. Clarke barely followed the local news. Of course he knew that there was a new group, but he hadn’t gotten around to learn about the details. Strangely enough, he was too consumed with the hunting and the butchering. Clarke laughed at the man trying to find his mushrooms. He held up his hands and shook his head. “That’s alright, my man. Whatever mushrooms you’ve found, they’re all yours.” Suddenly the whole Maria thing made a lot more sense. Was this guy just high on mushrooms?

“Wow, that’s really long. Aren’t you ever tired of... it?” Clarke asked, meaning life. Clarke find the island life entertaining enough, for sure. But to be here for about one hundred and twenty years without any hope of getting back to the mainland.. that must be rough. Clarke wasn’t sure he could bring up that same kind of stamina. “I can’t even imagine being alive for that long. Not sure if I want to either.” It was a tough subject, one that few people wanted to discuss, but it had been weighing heavy on his mind, if he let it.

Clarke raised his left brow. Was there any possibility this was real? I mean they were on immortal magic island, could this really be that far-fetched? “Are you.. are you talking about Maria, mother of Jesus?” Clarke could dream the stories, the implications, the remifications, everything. Being the youngest spiritual royal in Atlanta in a family that owned the church which if Father was a Bishop of, Clarke could practically dream the Bible. “You can’t be serious..” He repeated, amazed, but above all sceptical.

“Fire, you? I’d have pegged you a water or air kinda guy.” His calmness hardly screamed the most erratic element known on the island. He did quite enjoyed the contrast there, though. “I will help you build the pit, sure. The cooking is all yours. I’m more of a hunter.” He chuckled. “You’re a weird guy, Joaquin. But you’re alright, too.”

[thedukeofhastingssexyrobe]

Straight out of a fragrance campaign.

[txgxxn]

Yes please, give us the look

[clarke-davenport]

lucas-lowe​:

DATE: March 26th, 2021 TIME: 11:08 AM LOCATION: the Jungle

Luke stops splashing water on his face when his impeccable hearing picks up a breaking branch nearby. As much as the small stream flowing through the Jungle is a good place to gather water and rest up, it also attracts the preys and predators alike. He picks up the spear by his side and remains perfectly still on his spot. He was ready to strike and he almost did– before a familiar face emerges from behind the trees. The pointy end of the spear stops just before it hits Clarke. “…fuck, I almost skewered you, Dav.” He grumbles as he lowers the weapon. Despite his prickly tone, he is relieved that he didn’t hurt the fellow hunter. “Thought you were a boar or some shit.” 

Crouching back down next to the water, he resumes his catlike face washing. Ever since the mist, he’s been staying mostly in the Jungle and its outer edges, ‘camping’ as he calls it… In truth, he was just avoiding people. Well, a specific someone. He figured it’s best for them to not see each other right now, or at least he tells himself that. 

At least ‘camping’ meant more hunting, and Luke has been bringing more meat (unprocessed, since he did not stick around the cave long enough to smoke them) to the Farm. He has been productive, at the very least. “Speaking of boar, though, heard you caught one lately?” He blurts out, snapping out of his gloomy thoughts. He overheard conversations at the Farm. “…guess I need to up my game.” 

@clarke-davenport​

Back in the jungle again, all by himself. Again. On to find his next pray, again. It was a bit repetitive and that would be a bad thing, if hunting didn’t give him such a thrill. He was glad that, beside being the local butcher, he could also do something a little more action-packed, something that made him excited. Who knew Clarke Davenport, youngest son of a catholic Bishop, failure of Atlanta, would be so passionate for hunting. Perhaps it was the lack of clubs and other modern day activities that made him this way. Oh well. Finally a skill he’d be better at than any of his siblings.

As he crouched through the jungle, picking up the vribrations searing through his bare feet, he felt something. It was quite big and he swiftly, but quietly made his way over there. As he came closer, it became clear that he only big thing he sensed, was the ego of Lucas Lowe: the man with whom he had an unspoken contest of who was the better one. Nevertheless, he approached him and held his hand up as he became visible to him. “Oh, relax. It’s you. There was no way you would’ve actually hit me.” He teased with a smirk.

Clarke put away some branches that were bothering him and nodded. “Yeah, the one that was leaving a mess digging stuff up.” Clarke wasn’t not proud of that. It was a catch appreciated not only because of the food, but because the animal caused much frustration. “Yeah, it’s about time you brought something back to camp, man.” He nodded. “Speaking of which, I haven’t seen you there in a bit. I was beginning to think you’d die on me, bitten by some poisenous snake or something. What the hell have you been up to?”

[clarke-davenport]

sagetomashardy​:

===***===

“I might forget sometime, though,” Tomas said. “Not to yell, I mean, but the walking.” He lifted his foot, put it back down again with intentional force. “If I didn’t heavy up my steps then you’d never know I was coming.” Not that he was particularly adept at his air attunement, but he did occasionally – unintentionally – hover and float a little bit. If he was in an agitated state of mind. “The last thing I want to do is come up on you unannounced and you run me through like tomorrow’s supper.”

He watched Clarke as the other man lolled and lounged in the butchering shed, completely at ease despite all the entrails and blood and whatnot. Tomas himself didn’t much care for this aspect of food processing – all the guts and effluvium were a little much for him – but he was stoic enough to stand it, on occasion. Clarke, on the other hand, seemed almost blithe about his work.

“Pigarella,” Tomas repeated, but then scowled at Clarke’s comment about his wife. “That’s repulsive,” he groaned. “And very much not kosher. You’re very lucky that you’re so goddamn pretty, because your idea of sexy talk leaves a lot to be desired, pal.”

Clarke mentioned getting somebody else to do the more water-intensive part of the work, and Tomas hummed thoughtfully even if he was dubious such a thing could be achieved. “The only wet-nose I’d give this gruesome job to,” he said, “would be Emre, and he’s Muslim so he’s not likely to be excited about helping to clean a pig. Nope, it’ll have to be you, lucky lucky man.”

Clarke shrugged and laughed. “I get your point. Better not make you that screamy piggy on the table, hm?” Clarke teased, gesturing to the boar that was horribly exposed, next to a bucket of blood. For a moment he wondered if he teased Tomas too much. The man was kind enough to offer him the job and let him help out. Nah, it’s probably fine, and with that, he shrugged off the thought.

Clarke could only laugh roaringly at Tomas’ comment, getting pleasure out pushing that button and getting the reaction he had hoped for. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, man.” He held his hands up, gesturing innocense. “Yeah? Well, let me talk to your wife and we’ll see about that.” Clarke pointed the knife towards his employer, teasingly challenged him. “We can found out if your wife finds me as pretty as you do.” He smirked and winked, jokingly.

Clarke sighed dramatically. “Dammit, Emre. You’re spoiling my plans here, dude.” But smiled after his comment. “What do you need the intestins for anyway?” He asked, turning back to the carcass and gently sliding more of its skin off with his cleaver.