BRUT

B R U T | | D O V Hevelsohn if you need a fuckin' second name.

[dov-hevelsohn]

ELIJAH

I have two horses but still say I am alone. Elijah supposed he could understand that. He knew his preference for the company of animals said more about him than everyone else’s preference for the company of humans said about them. It was just what he was accustomed to. His ears were alert, tracing the man’s movements.

Christopher snorts softly, and then a few leather clad footsteps, and a rustle as the man settled somewhere nearby. “I am blind, yes,” Elijah confirmed. It didn’t bother him to talk about it. He would rather people asked the obvious question, rather than awkwardly edging around the topic. He was aware that when people first met him, it would be the first thing they would want to know. In a way, sometimes it was flattering.

As a stableboy, nobody ever asked you about yourself. You were handed the reins, and largely ignored. Perhaps he might receive a coin if he worked particularly hard. But since the accident, sometimes people paused and asked what happened to his face. In a sick way, it made Elijah happy; as though he was important, worthy of note. Maybe it was the most interesting thing about him, he wasn’t sure. “I-I know little. I was workin’ in Easton, and we heard that something real bad happened in Saint Clemens. They said the dead had risen, but the barkeep told me it was all rubbish, it was just a sickness that got outta hand. Y’hear all sorts comin’ through the saloon, so I didn’t pay much mind to gossip. But… well, clearly there was some truth in the rumours.”

His face was still turned to the stranger’s, eyes shifting sightlessly. Something in Dov’s heavy accent made Elijah think he knew things, even if he didn’t know the word for blindness. It must take a real smart person, Elijah supposed, to know two languages. 

“Blind?” he repeats back, mimicking the American accent before he laughs suddenly. He shakes his head, forgetting Elijah would not see it, “Sorry! I do not mean to laugh. In German it is blind. Blind. Blind.” He repeats the word a couple times, alternating between pronunciations. He feels silly for forgetting it, but in that moment simple enjoys the novelty of the similarity between the two languages. 

He listens to the boy’s short story, the stark contrast from that blip of laughter and the grim details. It was a terrifying perspective to be going through... this. Dov smelt the un-dead, heard them some nights, and found it even more horrifying than actually seeing the creatures the sounds and smells came from.

“Clearly there was,” he repeats with another solemn nod, “I do not the, uh, the details. I know people are bitten — get ‘bit’ —” he repeats the phrase he’d heard another resident of this town use to ask if he was going to turn “— and then they die before ‘waking’ up.”

“They wake up wrong.” Dov says, not sure how to fully articulate the horrors he witnessed. He thinks of the mother ripping into her own son’s throat, his attention wanders back to his own horses, wonders if an animal can be haunted by seeing humans commit violence. He hopes not. He likes the animals.

“It is not... safe to stay outside, I think. Especially you. Can not see them coming.”

[dov-hevelsohn]

OLIVER

“Lot more to worry about than this,” Southby assured the other man, giving the bottle a little tilt of indication. He guffawed at the insinuation that he’d be slowed down or turn into a waterfall of gossip. “If ya drank the whole damn thing - it’d probably make you a slow trigger with a shot ten feet off, but loosen tongues? There’s something else we don’t need to worry about. Nobody’s got time to gossip - if they did, I might be slightly more hesitant to take a drink.” Only Southby was hesitant. He held the bottle, but he’d yet to throw any back. A hair of caution stilled his hand. More so for his ability to remain alert, & therefore, alive rather than towards speaking out of turn but still. “Don’t believe we’ve met,” Southby turns the subject, though he reaches for two glasses & sets them both on the top of an over turned crate. “I’m Oliver Southby. Deputy but you can just call me Southby.”

He watches the man and listens, carefully, some people spoke very quickly and it took Dov time to adjust to their different rhythms. For a Deputy, he is very calm about the thought of drinking whilst there is danger right outside their front door. Despite this, he takes out two shot glasses.

Dov knows one shot will be fine, for him. It would be the polite thing to do, in the end, and Dov knows that one drink won’t kill him but being disrespectful to someone possibly in charge just might.

“No, we have not. I only found your town today,” he watches him. Deputy Oliver Southby. It feels like a very American name to Dov, but then he thinks that about most people.

“My name is Dov,” he says with a nod, maybe once Southby has a drink he can ask about the state of the town and their lack of a Sheriff but an abundance of deputies.

[dov-hevelsohn]

deft | dov & clementine

[dov-hevelsohn]

CLEMENTINE

“I’m sure that isn’t true.” the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. Maybe it was because she had always been quite trusting of people throughout her younger years but often she forgot that newcomers meant danger. Even with a gun in his hands, Clem did not feel as if she was in any sort of danger. “We had one left, but-” she stopped looking towards the broken front of the saloon. “I had to use him as bait to clear the sick.” she murmured was still staring off at the dilapidated ruins as she spoke. She still wasn’t used to the changes of their small town, physically and environmentally. She tucked her hair behind her ear her fingers brushing the raised flesh of her cheek. 

The brunette dropped her hand from his with a small smirk, “And you as well Dov.” she paused her eyes lighting up with curiosity. She reached to run her fingers through the horse’s mane once more, “Germany is quite far. I’ve never travelled that far, so not sure how to speak the language.” Clem’s smile faded. “How did you end up here of all places? Probably at the worst time too I reckon.” Did that mean that the sickness was that far spread. 

“Yes, born and raised. I left for a while, but came right on back.” she made a gesture towards the row of houses off in the distance. “I lived over there, but haven’t been back to it ‘cept once. There were too many of the sick inside to go back.”

Dov inhales sharply through his teeth in sympathy for both Clem and that poor horse. It sounds like a difficult choice to make, one Dov can’t imagine making. He’s grown attached to the two beasts that have kept him company for so long.

“I am very sorry to hear. That sounds very... very difficult thing to do,” he wishes his command of English was better so he could properly express how much that idea hurts him, and how clever it really is as a plan. Sometimes, it was a choice between two evils to survive. 

She lights up, something incredibly sweet, at the mention of his home country. Dov’s smile is a little wider, always pleased when people were interested. He wishes someone else here spoke German, it’d be a comfort.

“It is very far — I can teach you basics. I think it easy language to learn. Easier than English,” Dov offers, “Myself, my brother, and my father moved to America. We were living in Rockport. My father died before, uh, before this. My brother moved West.”

Dov straightens up suddenly at the quick rundown of her life story. He points towards the house she gestured towards. It’s the first flash of seriousness Dov has shown but the fear strikes him to his core, an instinctive need to prepare and protect himself and those around him, “The ‘sick’? The un—dead are inside house? How many house are full?”

[thexschoolmarm-blog]

pale moon || anne & dov

[dov-hevelsohn]

ANNE

   Sleep had been hard to come by since the dead had first starting walking through their streets, but it was so much harder now with the images of recent days filling her mind and refusing to leave her any rest. And it wasn’t like she had anyone to truly confide in. She and Risa were too different, even though it had been a shared experience, neither of them had truly gone through the SAME thing. It was hard not to completely isolate herself, but the children who didn’t know where their parents were or whose parents had died still needed her. In the daylight, it was much easier to put on a brave face and get through what needed to get done, but once the pale moon rose to cast a cold light over the town, it felt impossible to hide anything.

   Picking up the iron poker that had become her weapon of choice, Anne moved quietly through the room and let herself out. The air was cool and fresh and for a brief moment, she just stood with her eyes closed and let it wash over her. It was almost enough to make her feel NORMAL for a moment. A moment that ended as soon as she opened her eyes again and looked around.

   The quiet snort of a horse drew Anne’s attention and she smiled softly. Most of the horses in town had run off in the initial chaos. Gathering her skirt in one hand, she stepped down and moved to the animal, watching it carefully as she extended a hand to let it get her scent. “Well, hello, gorgeous,” she murmured softly. Shifting slightly, Anne’s eyes widened when she saw another figure standing on the other side of the horse, just out of her line of sight until she had moved. Flushing slightly, she ducked her head. “My apologies… I thought I was the only one out here.”

Dov, surprisingly, found it more difficult to sleep now he was with more people. It meant, in theory, he’d have other people to keep an ear out for danger so he should’ve slept well. The last few weeks he had only himself and the horses, and he had to rely on the animals stirring if there was any danger or hope it was loud enough to wake him.

He knows it’s probably a survival instinct, not wanting to be vulnerable surrounded by people whose motives are unknown. The un-dead were at least simplistic creatures. From the little Dov observed, they had no plans or foresight. They simply... moved and didn’t stop.

It’s why he hasn’t stopped to rest and instead found a much calmer activity in the hopes that if he couldn’t sleep, he’d at least have a mental rest. Dov was fiddling with a satchel on the ground when he sees a woman’s skirt. He catches a flash of legs as she fathers her skirt stepping towards the animal. 

Dov stands quietly, not wanting to startle her. He was going to clear his throat in a moment, distracted by the new face, who spots him first. She’s embarrassed, and Dov can understand. If he hadn’t realized she was looking at the horse when she said that, he’d be flushed and stammering.

“That is okay,” Dov accepts her apology with a smile, he holds up the bag he had on the floor, “I was not hiding, but I was on the ground. Easy to miss.”

He looks around, the nights are so much colder than the blistering days, something much more familiar to the German. He missed the cold most days.

“Is sleep hard for you to find as well?” Dov asks, making conversation because he’d rather blaze past any awkwardness, he’s still far too grateful to have found any living people to hang onto trivial things.

[dov-hevelsohn]

PASCAL

German. Maybe he should’ve recognized that, although his former business ventures with the Germans were always held either in their own language or in Dutch - on rare occasions even French. And he figured he was unfamiliar with how German sounded mixed with the English language. Except that his had a hint of Dutch and German when he spoke, the French having almost completely disappeared through years of practice. Except for the most obvious way he pronounced his name, he never did like the sound of it when spoken in other languages. Which is why now Pascal had no intention of introducing himself, until matters were settled.

While he hated to be left without an answer, he could very much appreciate the lack there-off due to the other’s guard that came up. At least the man was sensible. Still, Pascal had to know, so he moved around Dov, his shotgun still between the two of them, till he reached the side of the wagon. His fingers that encased the trigger of the weapon went a little looser, afraid that he might shoot the German if he made the wrong movement. Guns had never been his choice of weaponry.

He looked over the side of the wagon, almost expecting there to be an other person hidden. That fear pulled at him greatly, because Dov might sound honest, he looked to Pascal as a less than trustworthy person. He proved to be trustworthy in that regard, and looking from the contents of the wagon, he had indeed been living in there alone. What food he could see was scarce.

Pascal moved his head back to face the German, eyes taking a second longer to let go of the wagon. It had been a while since they had last seen a horse, and they sorely needed one should they want to travel. “Where did you travel from, Dov? And is this the first town you happened upon?” His tone was still that of someone who was trying to get a grasp on the situation. One he felt like he was totally in charge off.

Dov watches as the man’s finger moves away from the trigger. He relaxes in minuscule increments but nowhere near enough to show it. 

“I ride alone since Rockport. I only pass empty home and empty desert,” Dov answers more thoroughly than this stranger who refuses to give a name asked for. Dov’s jaw flexes, as he quite literally bites down on pestering for the man’s name once more. He also bites down on a smart comment, telling this man he doesn’t need to point a gun at Dov to get answers to his simple questions.

There is, of course, nothing and no-one in the wagon. Dov worries he could be killed for scraps. He eyes out the distance between himself and this stranger; the distance between his finger and the trigger. Wonders if he could clear it before this man realizes what Dov is doing.

Dov sighs, loudly, “I answer any question you have, Mister No Name, even if you do not point that —” he jabs a finger at him, not moving closer, only pointing at the weapon, no longer biting down on his impatience, “— at me.”

[dov-hevelsohn]

RISA

That morning Risa was perched atop the roof of a building located near the town’s entrance. Getting up there wasn’t difficult and, to be completely frank, Risa was starting to contemplate if she should just take her things and live up there from now on. Yes, there was something to be said about strength in numbers, but Risa was largely a solitary creature and being stuck with that many people inside a confined space was truly a test of her nerves. Also, as far as she could see, the undead couldn’t climb. She might be in an ideal spot.

At the moment, Risa’s eyes were vigilantly scanning the horizon. She wasn’t so optimistic to think that some form of reinforcements were coming their way or so negative as to think that she was only looking for the next horde of undead to approach town. Instead, she sat up there in the hopes of seeing her horse, Clara. The two of them had gotten back from a hunting trip when all hell had broken lose and in hurry, Risa unhitched the horse and told her to run. And run she did. Risa hadn’t seen her since and Risa found herself missing her faithful hoofed companion. But not only that, Risa needed her or any horse for that matter. Food supplies were dwindling and if Risa truly wanted to make herself useful and keep the others from fighting over food, she need a horse to take her further out there and wheel her cart so she could bring back a sizable kill to feed the remaining survivors.

It was her main area of focus of now. Yes, she had to find a way to trap and undead thing in a secure location or hope that one was locked in a house she just hadn’t check yet and study them, but taking care of the living and getting them fed was priority. It’s the main reason why when the stranger pulled up in a wagon with a few tired horses, that Risa doesn’t immediately point her gun at the man’s head and instead left it at her side, hidden from the man’s view.

“Mornin’,” she deadpanned, her dark eyes studying the man from under the brim of her hat. “You bit?” Risa asked getting right to the heart of the matter. 

Dov squints up at the figure, a stark silhouette against the sun, Dov barely making out the severe features in the shade of her hat’s brim. He holds a hand up to his brow, shielding his eyes best he can from the bright sunlight.

The frown from squinting grows deeper at her curt words. Not because they seem ‘rude’, but because Dov doesn’t understand. Said so quickly and with minimal words he misses the meaning. The closest word he can think of to ‘bit’ is ‘bitte’ and he’s almost certain that makes absolutely no sense in this situation.

“Sorry, what do you mean ‘bit’?” Dov calls up, the word sounder closer to ‘bitte’ than the English she had spoken. “My English is not the best?”

[dov-hevelsohn]

ELIJAH

When you lose your sight, your relationship with the world changes a great deal. You are forced to make assumptions about many things - like the sharp inhale he heard from the other. It could mean anything. It could mean he’d remembered something previously forgotten, or seen something terrible in the distance, or jostled an old injury.

But… Elijah thought he knew the reason. He didn’t take it personally. He was accustomed to people being uncomfortable to behold him. He’d always preferred to stay in the stables, and particularly after his accident, it felt like a necessity. What life would look like now, with him being forced to take to the road, Elijah couldn’t say.

“I am… as good as can be expected.” he replied softly, face turned in the direction of the strangers words. He sounded foreign, his voice harsh and guttural, but not unkind. “And I am not alone. I have my horse.” Elijah hesitated, rubbing the leather of the half-repaired bridle under his thumb. “May I ask… do you know what is happening? I come from another town, and I escaped alone. I didn’t know… I just heard screamin’, and I ran.”

Dov smiles at the answer, a round-about way of saying ‘No, he isn’t good.’  It looks like a nervous tic, the way he rubs a raw finger over the bridle. Dov nearly laughs at the answer he is not alone because he has a horse, but he doesn’t, that would be unkind. “I have two horses but still say I am alone.”

“What is happenin—-?” Oh. Oh, Dov pulls a pained expression, lets the reality of it all sink in. If this man cannot see, if he had not stopped to talk to anyone then he would truly be oblivious. The stranger, young from the looks of it, slightly turns towards the sound of Dov’s voice. He doesn’t flinch now he’s closer, growing accustomed to the sight.

He looks around them, makes sure there’s no un-dead ready to disrupt them before he approaches the young stranger. The horse looks alert and Dov holds up a hand, gently shushes the horse. The creature loses interest in Dov quickly, who decides now to perch onto the edge of an empty water trough so he can sit next to this man and talk without climbing into the hay too.

“I am sorry, I do not know the English word but your eyes? You can not see, yes?” Dov asks, internally flinching at the way his words lack the same tact he could find so easily in his mother tongue, “I ask only to understand how much you know already about what happen.”

[dov-hevelsohn]

PREACHER

Death, as it was often said, was the strongest argument against the existence of a Creator. Of a loving God, who cared deeply for each of them- the God who the Preacher had shared each morning with his congregation, and held to himself in the craziness of this life. David stood in the graveyard, the dirt of the fresh graves noticeably different from those that had passed on before the sick had made their way into town. Children, mothers, fathers… they’d lost their fair share of folks.

His fingers massaged his brow as he sighed quietly, wrestling in his heart.  Could a God who loved them allow this to happen? He knew the answers were not always easy, but he also knew that God didn’t wish these things upon his children. Sin had brought evil into the world, and the Devil was like a roaming lion, seeking whom he may devour, the Word said. All they could do was hold on. The loud creek of the rusty gate announced a newcomer to the town’s small cemetery, bringing him back to reality as he stood before the grave of a child. “Pardon me,” He said quietly, “Just paying my respects this mornin’.”

Dov had not truly had time to mourn his father’s death. Tradition would have his gravestone still shrouded, Dov would be allowed a year to mourn but the un-dead derailed that tradition. So, instead, Dov decides he will honour Hevel best he can. Making do was what the family did best, so Dov after settling into Janestown and its array of different folks went in search of a rock.

And he found a rock. A nice heavy one with a perfectly flat side that was heavy enough it wouldn’t be knocked over by a strong wind. He managed to scratch into it with a pocket knife, but when the blade looked close to snapping he it would be wiser to use an unmarked stone than put his own life in danger by wasting something as useful as a knife.

Dov carried the stone under one arm, finding himself gravitating towards the only holy building in the town. It was not his house of G—d, but a holy space was a holy space and Dov let himself into the graveyard. 

“Do not apologize,” he says with a nod, accent thicker as he speaks in hushed tones, “We all must mourn.”

Dov places the heavy stone on an empty patch of land, a bit away from the graves the man stands over. He begins to quietly speak to the stone, a single symbol scratched into it to mark this makeshift gravestone. Quietly, Dov begins reciting a prayer: “Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash sh'mei raba —-”

[dov-hevelsohn]

"A righteous man falls down seven times and gets up." – King Solomon, Proverbs, 24:16.

[dov-hevelsohn]

PASCAL

Despite the compliance to his suggestions, Pascal kept the shotgun trained at the man. He was never keen to strangers, and now it seemed even more important to stay on one’s guard. The undead had taken the land by storm, at least here, and he figured, like any good survivor, that there would be people out there desperate for food. And if such people got into the General Store, and weren’t closely watched. Well, he would like the chance to say that he was right, but he also liked to be fed. The fact that the man suggested he had not seen any “living” people, meant that he was aware of the undead situation. However, his comment on them not being alone seemed to be directed more to living people than the walking dead. Generating only more suspicion from Pascal. 

“Smart man,” he said in response. He couldn’t place the thick accent of the other right away, but it was clear he wasn’t from around. Not that Pascal could count himself local in that regard, but he had been with this group of enough time to think himself one of their leaders. Wishful thinking maybe, he might’ve charmed some to like him, but he knew he did not fit in. He was from a whole different world than most of them. He eyed the wagon then, not sure on how to handle the situation delicately, but well aware that he was the one holding the other at gunpoint. “Have you got any food in that wagon of yours?” he asked, tone flat. He wasn’t about to tell this stranger about the living dead in Janestown. Not to mention knowing that if he introduce himself, his pronunciation of his own name would right away give away that neither he was a local to this place. He moved in a little closer, hoping to catch some glimpse of what was in the wagon, a little closer to the stranger as well, but the shotgun remained a barrier between the two of them that made Pascal feel a little more confident. 

“Now, Dov. Care to tell me what brings you to Janestown, or if you have any friends hiding around here that I should know off?” He knew nobody else would ask the hard questions. Deputy Day would probably just walk up to the man and welcome him with open arms. Introduce him to his sister, maybe name a street after him. Really, given how easily the cattle farmers were accepted into the group, Pascal figured the survivors were desperate enough to welcome anyone who had anything on them. 

“Danke,” Dov says to the ‘smart man’ comment. When the stranger ignores his greeting and instead questions whether Dov has any food in his wagon, it sends a shock of panic through him followed by a darker streak of anger. 

Dov keeps his eye on the man and his trigger finger watches where it sits considers how much danger he’s in. Surviving this long to have a trigger-happy possible French-man blowing his brains out is not how Dov wants to see his life end. If he times it right, he can disarm the man without injuring anyone. He waits, though, lets the man continue his ‘pleasantries.’ He is bigger than this man. Could clearly take him down if necessary, and it’s starting to feel like he let himself get too carried away with the sight of a living person. It’s a disappointment both in himself and the man that an attempt to be friendly could turn into a pointless scrap over food.

Dov keeps a steady tone, open posture, “I will continue being smart man and not answer that.”

Dov refuses to move, even as the man steps closer with the shotgun pointed at his chest, “But no, I have no ‘friends’, I have been travelling only with two horses for some time. I ask plainly, now, what is your name?”

[dov-hevelsohn]

ELIJAH

He was not sure if this town would accept him. He was not sure if any town would accept him; Elijah knew he was as like to be a burden as a help, because what could he do if the undead came, except get underfoot of the people that could help?

A few had seen him, spoken with him, one particularly kind lady had given him bread, and clean water to drink. But he was on his guard; sitting outside, curled up on a pile of hay at which Chrissy was eating placidly, he had had one stroke of good fortune. He had found a broken bridle. Alone it might not do much good, but he would be a fool to discard it. It had taken him over an hour to thread the needle, but he managed eventually, and now sat trying to repair the bridle. It was slow work. Each thread, he traced carefully with his fingers to make sure it was as straight and taut as he was able, and he had pricked his fingers bloody.

Staring unseeingly about, his head turned vaguely in the direction of what he supposed to be an approaching wagon. He tried not to feel too nervous. The undead did not ride wagons, after all. The voice that called out was heavy, thickly accented in a way Elijah had never heard before. There was a long pause as he wondered if the man was addressing him; as the moments ticked by, Elijah supposed he must be.

“G-good mornin’, sir.” he said, keeping his head down. It wasn’t enough to hide his scarred eyes, but he always cast his sightless gaze down. People were often uncomfortable looking upon him. “I’m sorry, this ain’t your hay, is it?” His voice was soft, a lilting musical sound with a hint of the south in it. Elijah had thought - hoped - this hay was abandoned, as the house beyond it seemed to be, but he feared trouble and his mind was always quick to point out what form that might take.

Dov cannot help the sudden sharp inhale through his teeth, a sharp wince of sympathetic pain once he’s close enough to see this stranger’s face in more detail. Dov is grateful he’d spoken because he likely would’ve been mistaken for oneof the un-dead if he hadn’t. 

It’s a sad sight: especially the bridle sat in his hands, slightly marred with streaks of blood from fingers that looked poked full of holes. Dov begins to shake his head, realizes from the way the boy’s eyes remain unfocused and gaze cast down, he must be blind. It’s a terrifying thought.

“No, is not mine,” he answers with a slightly hushed voice, “I just arrive. Are you... Are you alone? Are you... good?” He doesn’t mean to suddenly throw questions, in fact he stops himself from continuing with a small tirade of them. Why is he lying in a bale of hay? Why are his fingers bloodied? And what happened to his face?

Instead of continuing with too many questions, Dov stops a foot away and unashamedly stares at the strange, sorry sight in front of him. 

[dov-hevelsohn]

deft | dov & clementine

[dov-hevelsohn]

CLEMENTINE

Clem couldn’t help but smile. There were so many bad things happening since this all started that there was not much time to stop and just be there. She took note of his accent, far from her own cadence. She took a few cautious steps forward raising her hand slowly to stoke the horses neck. At first the beast stiffened under her hand, but soon seemed to relax under her hand. “Sorry, just never really got to have one of my own. I reckon you have the only two horses left within a hundred miles.” Clem pulled her hand back gently before turning back to Dov. 

There was no reason to hate newcomers, in fact it showed that they weren’t the only ones left. She turned back to the wagon folding her arms, “I’m Clem. Clem Day.” she said holding out her hand with a warm smile. “Where are you from Dov? I don’t believe I’ve heard an accent like that around here or St. Clements.” the curiosity hung from her every word as she took a seat next to him on the wagon.

The stranger, Clem as she then introduces herself, smiles and Dov gladly returns it. It was nice to be met without suspicion. He did not expect these strangers to welcome him with open arms, but it was still pleasant. She apologises again for her sudden interest in the horses but he dismisses her again with a wave of his hand a short ‘psh!’ noise. “They must hate my voice by now, feel free,” he pauses for a moment then continues, “You have no horses?”

He takes her hand in his with a short firm shake, his large rougher hand slightly dwarfing her. “Nice to meet you, Clem.”

“Deutschland,” Dov frowns, has to take a second to remember the English word for his home country, “Germany. I have lived here for few years but can never shake it.” Dov had never made an attempt to shake it either, he mostly spoke to his father or brother in German, even as Levi constantly made an effort to speak with an American accent. “Is this your home?”

[dov-hevelsohn]

deft | dov & clementine

[dov-hevelsohn]

CLEMENTINE

There was nothing Clem could do to get her brother to leave the hole that he had dug himself into. She had barely left his side, but now she was tired of it. She needed to go outside, the air was too stiff in the general store. Too many people were starting to crowd the space. Her fingers took the black hat that sat resting on her back and set it in the back room. She was careful when she laid it down, but she didn’t need it much now. She twirled the small pocket knife between her wrapped hand from when she cut it days ago. All in all, Clementine Day looked about as tired as she felt. . 

It wasn’t until she stepped into the Fresh air and took a deep breath that she felt much better. That was when she heard a voice speaking a different language. She took a few steps forward trying to figure out who the stranger was talking to. She watched as the horses looked up at her approach, only remembering that she was the one who let the last horse run off as bait to clear the saloon. 

“They’re beautiful.” she said with a small smile. Even as a child she had always loved horses. Of course her family had always been too poor to own one. She looked at the newcomer tilting her head as she examined him listening to him whisper to the horse, “Sorry wasn’t trying to be a bother, there just aren’t a lot of friendly faces in there right now.” Clem jerked her head towards the store.

“I think they would say thank you if they could,” Dov responds with a soft smile. He sets the rifle down in his lap, brush held loosely in the other. They were incredibly docile creatures, barely reacting to the woman’s arrival or close proximity. It was fortunate for Dov they were friendly, made it easier for him to steal the wagon. It’s still a fact that makes him uncomfortable even if he is certain that the horses would’ve likely perished if he hadn’t ridden them out of town. 

It’s a gentler greeting than most others offered him. It’s a point driven home as she describes him, a complete stranger, as a friendly face compared to people she actually knows. He knows this group are on edge, more so than he would have expected, but he won’t question just yet. He doesn’t want to  make anyone dislike him. He scoffs as he waves a hand at her, dismissing her comment, “You are not a bother, I would enjoy your company. My name is Dov.”

[dov-hevelsohn]

OLIVER

“Y’know times is tough when you can’t find a drink, let alone drink it without someone eyeballing you.” Southby might as well have huffed. He’d swiped a bottle of whiskey from the back of Harry’s storehouse & it wasn’t even the good stuff, which probably accounted for some of his grumpiness but then again it was wet & that’s what counted. “I think we all deserve one after what we’ve been through. Hell, I’d even give that kid a swig if he walked by.“

Dov watched the man, apparently another Deputy of this town. He had not yet heard mention of any Sheriff and he had to assume this meant he was one of this group’s dead. He frowns as he silently watches the man walk about the building, swiping a drink from the shelf. Dov knows the circumstances are difficult, and very different, but it still feels like stealing to grab a bottle like that. And, it most certainly is not a good time to be drinking. He is one of those people ‘eyeballing’ the man, but he thinks he is in the right.

“I think people only ‘eyeball’ because they worry,” he pipes up from his seat where he had been silently watching the others, trying to take stock of the people he had stumbled across,“Whiskey slows mind and loosens tongue too much.” He knows it will sound like he’s being a ‘bore’, Levi would react angrily, but Dov sticks by his words despite knowing better.

[dov-hevelsohn]

deft | dov & clementine

@clementinexday

Dov found himself ‘accepted’ into this group much to the Frenchman’s annoyance. He did venture into their over-crowded ‘base’ but found himself growing edgy being stuck indoors. Especially after finding the group’s reluctant leader of sorts, a former Deputy who was sat in a backroom feeling sorry for himself. Dov decided instead to keep his two boys company.

He sat on his, rifle in his lap and began to clean it. He began talking without realizing it, a fairly new habit as he only had the two horses for company. He relieved them from the wagon, hitched them very nearby with space to sit and drink and eat. He was telling them a story, one of his father’s favourites, in Yiddish, about the old country and a very angry milkmaid. His voice is low and deep, a lot of rolling ‘kah’ and soft guttural sounds. He found the sound comforting whilst some Americans seemed to find it off-putting. The horses' ears would twitch, the familiar voice soothing. 

He’s not too absorbed in his solitary task that he doesn’t notice the woman loitering nearby. He looked up, saw she was one of the living, and assumed that would be it. He turned the rifle over, continued his slow speech as one of the horses huffed.

[dov-hevelsohn]

MARGUERITE

“God, you know what I miss? Baths. Being clean. I suppose that’s one of the luxuries of being a whore… men like you clean, men pay for you to be clean. Well, some of them. Some of them don’t care, they would still have you even if you just rolled yourself in a pile of horse shit…” 

She couldn’t help but laugh to herself as she thought aloud. As much as her life never turned out the way she planned it to be, she missed the way things used to be. Before the outbreak; before the new management take over. When things were harmonious and she was happy with the life she lead. Now it was like it had never happened. She often wondered about the girls she used to work with. She hoped they were safe and that she would see them again soon, alive and healthy. But she could only wish.

“What do you miss the most? What’s something you would wish for if you could right now? Anything - nothing is off limits,” she asked curiously to anyone who wanted to chime in, trying to break the awful and piercing silence that most people preferred to bask in nowadays.

Dov does not judge, he thinks he is an... accepting man but when the pretty young lady drops that out so casually he quite literally chokes into his coffee. “Bitte,” he reflexively apologizes in his native tongue, swiping his mouth the back of his hand.   

She laughs, though, as she makes a crude joke. Dov can’t help wrinkling his nose at the mere thought of a woman covered in horse shit. He feels suddenly very old and very boring, that is what Levi always sad about him. Called him a bore, made fun of him when he’d clam up at any conversation of women or relationships.

“I do not know,” Dov answers, looking into the black liquid, there are many things he misses but he knows he could not answer without dragging down the mood of her jovial laughter, “ I only have boring answer to that. Bath would be good, though.” He continues, nodding in agreement and trying to adamantly not talk about the woman’s previous occupation.

[dov-hevelsohn]

PASCAL

It was silent in Janestown, ever morning when Pascal woke up there was nothing but the sound of the wind and the whispering of people inside the General Store. He didn’t do well around people in the morning, so he took his cafe - which was starting to taste more like hot water as time went by - outside, taking over from one of the individuals on watch so they could go have dinner. They were one short now, Deputy Day still recovering from his run-in with some zombies. Not Pascal’s choice for a good leader, he was a sulking mess that needed company and medicine every second of the day. Weak person like that they didn’t need to be saving them from anyone any time soon. 

He took a sip, annoyed at the taste, but still glad for what little caffeine was in there. His shotgun rested against his leg, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. He took his job seriously, but the waiting was nagging at his brain for the past days, they were going nowhere, and neither were the creatures at their door. It was time to either strike, or let Risa have her way with finding out how to best defeat the threat. Yet he feared that with the Deputy out of the way, nothing was going to come of that plan.

Suddenly he heard what sounded like horses up ahead. He put the cafe down and picked up his shotgun, placing the end of it into his shoulder as he went for the sound, which had disappeared behind one of the buildings. He moved quickly, yet silently, the undead still being around, stalking but not attacking. Yet, what he found were two very, very alive horses, a beat down looking wagon, and an individual clearly shouting good morning into the open air. 

Pascal closed in on him as the individual spoke once again. Eyes narrowed. They’d had a couple of strangers over the course of the weeks joining their little band of survivors, but he had always been against them taking in too many. Food was scarce, the General Store was growing packed, and he really didn’t trust all those new people. He kept the shotgun pointed at the man, eyeing the state of the horses and the wagon quickly. “Best keep your voice down, friend. We’re not alone here.” He pointed with his own weapon at the shotgun in the man’s hand then. “I suggest putting that down unless you want to give people the wrong idea.” 

The main has an accent, and for once it's not an American one. Not wholly American, at least, but it reminds him of home. Vaguely. Another European was always a welcome sight, or sound, for Dov, even if only because he so often found himself feeling out of place in this land. German still sat heavy on Dov’s tongue, his English is good, but he could never get the sounds right.

“Good point,” Dov flashes a small smile, nods as he moves the rifle to hang off his shoulder. He knows he could easily swing the rifle at the ready if need be, but whatever keeps the first living person he’s seen in a while happy, Dov will do what he needs to. “Apologies. I have not seen a lot of living people, I get excited.”

“Not alone?” he repeats back, he pauses before asking too much, he doesn’t want to give this man the wrong idea in case he thinks Dov could be casing the area. So he decides to leave it as an open question. From everything the man has said so far, it does seem implied he is not alone out here. Dov restrains a genuine smile at that.

“My name is Dov,” he introduces himself, readies to hold a hand out but realizes that would mean walking up to the stranger with a gun. “I would come over and shake hand but I do not want to get shot.”