sweet lioness.

"I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world." naomi avnerthirteen

[livmocre]

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[naomiavner]

I think with my heart and I move with my head I open my mouth and it’s something I’ve read

[naomiavner]

disconnect :: cheyenne

[closer-is-god-blog]

"Out of the two of us.." he begins in a clear voice, turning to watch her stride away, his own features set into tired disappointment by her warranted refusal—more warranted than she could even imagine in this moment—"we both know which is more likely to stall. To miss a beat. To die." He’d never been known to freeze, never, it just wasn’t in his blood. Dean had never shied away from a fight before. And she, this young adult trying to bear the weight of her mother’s world, was small; not useless—not even weak. But her arms were no match for his despite her strong will (which he might not see breaking if it were to, something that could go without warning in the night). And as long as she was in danger of himself he would never consider her safe from others. Pocket knife or not, he’d proven how hopeless a blade or even a gun could be too many times to put much into that measure of her safety.

"And unless you like company—" he slowly smirks at her thin frame as it moved almost carelessly over the grass; seemingly reckless despite how much effort her juvenile mind must be putting into her co-ordination, "—you’ll probably rather staying in bed tonight." He had no intention of making things easier for her now, and he was of the belief that children shouldn’t be given opportunities like this to fuck up. Though he would be thrilled if she did put herself in a position to be possibly the only one awake with him tonight. He’d find that plenty amusing, where his life recently had become quite dull.

After the day he’s had he wouldn’t be giving up watch too easily. Things were too up in the air, people were feeling strung tight. And Dean didn’t trust anyone, certainly not when they could see through the thin curtains of his disguise. But they were always welcome to voluntarily suffer, alongside him, in the dark when he could definitely benefit from the entertainment.

[naomiavner]

"Fine," The little girl spits her next words at him through her teeth, turning on her heel, and leveling him with a gaze full of malice. She inherited none of her mother's softness. Where Violet is fresh meadow grass, and spring breezes, and baby's breath, and lark song, Naomi is just ash, and dust, and  the shrill, ominous crowing of ravens in the distance. Full of steel and fire.  Maybe if you trace your finger far enough back the Porter family tree, you'll find a branch of warrior women; the cloth from which little Naomi was cut. But more likely, her bitterness was something that starts with her. Which  is appropriate, she supposes, since this marks the beginning of a need for warriors in the family. "If you want to endanger all of our lives and lose more rest picking up an extra watch shift, I guess I can't stop you. Just so long as  you don't send my mother up to that roof tonight. She needs to sleep."                           She's moving closer to him, closing the distance she'd just put between                          them, digging her nails into the heel of her hand with such pressure she                           thinks it may draw blood. She considers slapping him. Open-handed she                          could do some real damage; drag her nails across the tender flesh of his                          face, opening paths down his cheek, before he gets a chance to hit her                          back, as she's sure he wouldn't hesitate to do.  It's a strange thought. Jarringly violent. She's not sure where it came from but she has to remind herself that Dean is her ally, not her enemy, in order to suppress the urge.  "You're an asshole." She mutters venomously, eyes fixed on his. She turns suddenly to go inside. Not sure if he'll help her mother now or not, and not sure whether or not she cares. One night in the chair won't kill Violet, no matter how work and grief wearied she may be.  

[fanningslove]

[naomiavner]

How's adolescence in the apocalypse coming along?

There’s a small shrug, eyes fall to the ground, “‘Bout as well as it was before.” Growing up is something she’s opposed to, regardless of her surroundings. 

[naomiavner]

You would make a nice zombie.

"Fuck you." 

[naomiavner]

then came hell & high water. >> listen. >> a mix for a new world.  i. missouri waltz; marideth sisco ii. give up on ghosts; computer vs. banjo iii. rifles; black rebel motorcycle club iv. new world in my view; king britt v. bringin' home the rain; the builders and the butchers vi. soul of a man; david lindley vii. diggin' my grave; william elliot whitmore viii. bury them deep; ghoultown ix. ain't no grave; jonny cash. x. devil's waitin'; black rebel motorcycle club xi. eye of the storm; lovett xii. eric & sookie's theme; true blood ost

[elledaily]

Elle by Kevin Scanlon

[riseabovethemadness]

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Rocks and Water || Deb Talan

[naomiavner]

disconnect :: cheyenne

[closer-is-god-blog]

Ignoring her underhanded request for now, Dean calmly tilted his head to look at her more intently. “I heard what you said, Naomi.” He stepped closer slowly, trying not to scare her, like approaching any other bold eyed animal. “It was redundant to ask, and I hope you won’t waste time like that when it really counts,” his eyes dropped down her arms and then raised back to follow her hand’s path over her forehead. Blood doesn’t escape his attention, it rarely does.

"They’re smarter than you will ever know," he raised his hand, inclining it towards her some with a cocked brow, questioning her ability to not flinch or step away from him with his own expression.

"We are already in their trap." His voice is somber and his eyes dark with a haunting and nameless recollection. Sometimes people and the dead could even spring traps together.

[naomiavner]

"And I hope you won't waste time...pontificating like this, when it counts." She replies acidly, snapping the still bloody switchblade shut with her thigh, clipping it on to her belt loop. 

It's really a beautiful knife. A hunting knife with a long, gleaming wood handle, and a curved carbon blade. Her mother would be furious to know she'd pilfered it off of one of the dead bodies they'd passed on their way here. Violet had teared up at the sight of them, turned away with a harsh swallow and shudder that made Naomi wonder if she'd thrown up in her mouth. Naomi, though, had just stared down at the wide, unseeing eyes, trying to figure if they were better off, in the long run. The slowly rotting corpse of a hunter whose entrails had been scattered, presumably by a (she loathes to say the word because it sounds so fantastic and surreal and reminiscent of movies and shows that had not even begun to touch on the horror of reality) zombie, or a pack of them. His face was still perfectly intact beneath his plaid, woolen hunting cap though. His knife glinted in his hand, and she knew he must have tried to use it to defend himself. She likes to think he'd (whoever he had been) want someone who'd use it well to have it.  Riled by the hand he'd raised, and his refusal to answer her question, she slings the rabbit over her shoulder and takes two long strides away from him toward the building. "If you don't tell her, I will. It'd just make things easier, is all." She glances over her shoulder at him with her thin lips set in a line that implies a growing bitterness.  

[naomiavner]

disconnect :: cheyenne

[closer-is-god-blog]

She is the aching annoyance of all that he is used to distancing himself from, children made his skin crawl, and he had never thought he would be back here again, burdened by the responsibility of someone else’s safety.

"You think predators catch prey with questions?" he retorts smoothly, taking a few heavy steps closer to her station, grass bending to accommodate the weight of his figure.

"Never underestimate a predator that rises from its grave," he looked down at her kill, the prize for her recklessness. "You will often find that they have something up their sleeve."

With the mottled blue clouds slipping across the expansive grey sky above them he considers a rainy evening. More bumps and patters in the night which rendered it almost impossible to relax. And if Naomi brought any undead to their door with the scent of her bloodlust and the commotion around it, they could all be made to depart in the night in the middle of a downpour.

The possibility certainly doesn’t give any light or charm to his forbidding countenance.

[naomiavner]

There is a small part of her, that wants to stay outside; linger just to irritate him. But she's finished now, and she's itching to get away from him. And ready to crawl back under the warmth of her mother's wing (however independent she may be--has always been--she has always returned to that warmth. Her mother's kindness is a quality she has appreciated and admired, but not possessed). The rabbit is dressed, and though the group will not be able to eat much off of it, it seems a small victory. Soon, she will graduate to larger game, and she will be able to bring back enough meat to feed them all for weeks. Her mother's always liked venison. She smiles to herself, and looks down at her handiwork, cleaning the blade against a rag on the ground before she looks up.

"I didn't say that. I asked if you thought they were smart enough to set traps." She rises gracefully, brushing dirt on her, the rabbit dangling from a rope in her hand. Standing straight, she's only about four inches shorter than him. Her mom is only an inch smaller. She wonders if it bothers him. She hopes it does. "You don't seem to like to answer questions directly." There is still blood under her fingernails and on the tips of her fingers. Some smears on her temple when she reaches back to tuck straying bangs behind her ears. "I'm taking my mom's watch turn tonight. She needs rest. I need you to tell her so." It's a bad time to ask for a favor, but she hopes he'll understand. Everyone has a softness for her sweet mother, and she assumes that even Dean has some small place in his heart (or whatever he has locked away in his chest) for Violet. 

[naomiavner]

What did you want to be before the outbreak happened?

"I don’t really see how talking about stuff like this is really going to help us at all. We don’t have time for navel-gazing anymore." 

[naomiavner]

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT #001: BASICS

FULL NAME: Naomi Grace Avner

ORIGIN: Naomi (Hebrew name meaning, 'pleasantness') was named for one of her maternal aunts. Avner, her father's surname, is a Hebrew name meaning, "father of light," derivative of Abner. 

BIRTHDAY: November 12, 2000 GENDER: Female PLACE OF BIRTH: Fairview, Maine HEIGHT: 5' 6"  WEIGHT: 115 BUILD: Endomorph NATIONALITY: American HAIR COLOR: White blonde GLASSES OR CONTACTS: Neither, Naomi has very good eyesight. GROOMING: Prefers to keep her hair long but often ties it back to keep it from getting in her way. Typically wears neutral colors. Favors bulky sweaters, military jackets, button downs, jeans, and a well-loved pair of cream high tops. When it gets hot out though, she strips down to tank tops and shorts very quickly. Often forgets to bathe or brush her hair.  Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: A small tattoo of a tree on the left side of her ribcage. It's faded to a light greenish color, because it was a stick and poke an older friend gave her.  ACCENT: Strong American accent, with a pronounced New England affect. Slightly lisping. 

MANNERISMS: Chews at her lower lip and thumb, often until they bleed. Tends to stare intently at whatever she is most focused on. 

LEVEL OF EDUCATION: Naomi was halfway through the ninth grade when the apocalypse hit.

LEVEL OF SELF ESTEEM: Fairly high. 

STYLE OF SPEECH: Clipped, seemingly cold. With those she's most comfortable with, she is more animated, but she is generally quite resigned and does not speak unless she has a reason to do so. Though her tone is often soft, she is not hushed or murmuring. 

MAKES DECISIONS BASED MOSTLY ON EMOTION OR LOGIC?: Some combination of emotion/instinct. 

[naomiavner]

disconnect :: cheyenne

[closer-is-god-blog]

He considered doing something to get her attention for a long moment, but once she looked into his face again he simply waited for her to speak.

"And you thought.." his voice is as slow and as cold as the chill rolling in over the hills, ".. that you would come out here on your own to do so?"

"Without anything but a knife?"

He had no interest in watching Naomi perish like so many others, fade into the bony corpses he’d had permanently decomposed into the back of his eyelids since things went as rotten as the smell of the undead swarming through this once flourishing state. He wasn’t going to stand idly by and let a child and her shell-shocked mother try to fend for themselves. He had weapons, and the training to use them. He didn’t have any other thing to offer them besides his hands and the sharp reflexes that hadn’t dulled through any of his self abuse. But it was what he planned on giving them.

"Nothing is so important that you need to come running out here on your own like the rabbit you’re gutting now," he leans towards her, still strides away but boring into her features with burning eyes, "are you trying to get caught in a trap?" he asked with no real interest in hearing her answer.

"If you want to be skinned by the hands of a predator than you should stop wasting your mother’s precious time and energy—and our supplies."

It was infuriating to have no control over her, to not be able to drag her back into the confines of safety until daylight. He wants to be able to dig his fingers into the skin of her arms deep enough when he grabs her that she can feel the danger of being anywhere alone seeping into her thoughts of a lost freedom.

But he stands like a sentinel, posture straight again, eyes going between the landscape and the girl’s face. Containing the anger and helpless frustration with a pursed lip and heavy brow.

[naomiavner]

Knuckles go white as her fingers curl tighter round the handle of the hunting knife, and she sets her jaw, staring back up at the elder with an animosity shes not old enough to properly disguise. There is a part of her that wants to look back down to the entrails again and stubbornly ignore her. But she wants to show him she can meet his gaze. She wants to prove that no matter how hard he tries to burn her with the heat of his stare, she will not be burned.

He doesn't need to lecture her on survival. It has become her new religion. Praying to the nameless deities that bring rain and sure-shooting. Her bible, a book she'd read a month ago called The Art of Survival. It was where she learned how to field dress. It was where she learned how to make a trap for rabbits. When she started it, she'd had no idea just how important the contents would be. No idea that it would teach her things beyond the practical. No idea, that the passage on being lost at sea, drinking dew off of sails would sustain her soul from day to dismal day. It taught her that one must survive even in the face of utter hopelessnes, so that you are there, when something to live for finally arrives. 

She tilts her chin at a skew, like a challenge. It's not that she dislikes the elder, it's just that she chafes at his presumption, and the leash he'd like to keep her on. Not even her mother issues orders so often as this stranger.  Instead of responding to anything he's said, she looks back down to the entrails and quirks her head curiously as she continues her work. "You think they're smart enough to set traps?" Her voice is even, nonplussed. 

[elledaily]

[naomiavner]

disconnect :: cheyenne

[closer-is-god-blog]

He’d been engrossed with calculations for over two hours now, sitting amongst tins of imperishables and a growing list of their supplies, Dean had made it his own responsibility to look after these things. He wouldn’t put that on any of the other survivors he had in this heavily barricaded building. It was used by the military during the last war. He’d thought it would be their safest option, at least for the time being.

But as his mind drifts back to the woman and her child, the two that had made him think the most, he realizes he can’t place where the little girl was. He hadn’t asked her to look after anything, Violet hadn’t said anything to him. The man slowly scanned the room before standing and making an informal search of the surrounding rooms, the ones usually occupied by the survivors that had come together for safety in numbers. But no head of brilliantly blonde hair anywhere.

At this point his eyes seek out what his feet move swiftly towards; the doors, the outside. The only place he would feel the need to go if he were a thirteen year old child staring the end of the world in the face like a bull tamer with their eyes on the beast. Naomi’s bravery had a childish grace to it, and it was always there in her face where he could tangibly see it, read it, every line. There was something instinctive about her.

His scuffed brown leather boots crunched on the twigs of a dawning fall once he’d tread over the cold stone steps leading out of their temporary sanctuary. At first he doesn’t see anyone, eyes scanning the horizon this time, circling the trees that speckled either side of the lawn. A lawn that ensured a certain amount of warning before any undead reached them. Though the woods, were directly behind them.

Movement catches his eye and within a minute he’s standing a few long strides away from the girl he had begun to think hadn’t done the stupid thing he’d considered when coming out here.

"What are you doing out here alone?"

He wastes no time on civility or pretense, he never did.

[naomiavner]

They are all like animals. Driven by baser instincts, but drawn together closely like Wolves or Hyenas. It's the self-appointed alpha male who's stalked toward her, barking as furiously at her as she had anticipated he would. What made him think he had the right to take control? Was it something innate? Something that's always been in his blood? Would he have joined the army if the end of the world had not come? Her mother had gravitated toward a role of leadership, but more out of strength of spirit than will.

She continues her work for a long beat, slicing the rabbit's stomach roughly, considering not answering at all. Just stubbornly continuing her work to answer his question. Eventually though, her eyes flick up from her work, and there's something razor-edged perched in that cherubic face. No danger or malice poised in it, but something faintly wild lighting blue eyes like halogen lights.

She stares up at him a moment, canting her head and looking over him again. She hasn't known him long, and she can't decide whether he is a good man or a bad man (she doesn't do shades of grey, she is a young woman of extremes. Black or white, this or that.) and that makes her nervous. She draws a steadying breath before looking back down the the rabbit--bled, skinned, and nearly free of its organs. She'd thanked it, as it died. She wonders if she should save the sweet breads. "I caught a rabbit. I had to dress it before morning." She answers flatly. 

[naomiavner]

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Every day, a dyin' day

[naomiavner]

What do you miss most?

"My Dad. And my brothers."