Pascal

35 year old Entrepeneur, owner of multiple failed businesses, and world traveler by account of running away from debtcollectors.

[pascal-deschamps]

charlotte-beaufort‌:

His demands were useless to her, but watching him squirm did help. She thoroughly enjoyed having the upper hand for once. (It was a sight she should have been owed back in St. Clemens, when she took over the brothel from him, but it was better late than never.) It calmed her a little. 

“Why, monsieur, j'aurais pensé que c'était évident,” she said, innocently. He hated being kept in the dark, he always had. The best part was that he put himself in this situation; if he had ever taken the time to get to know her, or even gave a single thought as to what a person in her situation would need, then he would have no problem figuring out what she wanted from him. But he never considered her an equal, a human being worth his consideration. To him she was just another product. A pricey one, but a product nonetheless.

A soft laugh escaped her. “Là tout de suite je veux juste être en sécurité.” It came out just above a whisper, almost as if she was saying it to herself than to him. She steeled herself. She had to be much stronger now, especially if she was going to bargain with him.

“Je ne dirai à personne qui vous êtes vraiment,” she said. “Tant que je sais que j'ai une place ici.” And if Monsieur Deschamps was ever stupid enough to threaten that, he would find out what she was capable of.

He wondered if to be safe herself was something she was truly after, although he figured she must be afraid that he too would be able to make her life difficult here if he wished. After all, he had been with these people longer, he figured that in honest conversation they might take his word over hers, though she was great at putting up an act. They responded well to women in trouble. But it was a dangerous game, if either of them stepped out of line, they could expect the other to retaliate. He knew that much, the fact that she asked for security was more of a demand to enforce the idea that they could ruin things for each other, than that it felt like she was truly asking him to ensure she had a safe place. 

Which meant Pascal thought that more demands might follow. Despite feeling like she had the upper hand right now, he did grimace at the mention of telling the people of the town who he really was. As if they would care. He was more afraid that she would use her little act to make his standing with the survivors uneasy. “Tu ne leur diras pas qui je suis vraiment?” he mused. “Alors qui suis-je, mademoiselle Beaufort?” 

“Vous me demandez de vous assurer d'avoir une place ici? Ou est-ce que je comprends mal cela?” he went on, but his voice was dangerous. He could accept this treat, but he didn’t want to come for more surprises should she decide to bargain for more later on. He didn’t like how this was going, he didn’t like that he had this woman telling him what and what not to do. She proposed a challenge and a problem that he wasn’t sure yet how to deal with, but he wasn’t about to have to watch his every move just because she couldn’t be trusted. 

[pascal-deschamps]

risa-shoji‌:

The scene was incredibly macabre. The image of this sole woman surrounded by the dead carcasses of smaller animals dangling from hooks as she worked to pluck the feathers of the dead bird laid before her. But not to Risa. To her, this was her norm. This was her job. Having been trapped within the confines of Janestown since the incident, actually getting out there, hunting, and bringing back something the community could use; it felt good. It felt normal in a world that was everything but since the dead started walking. It was her own way of finding peace of mind. 

Risa continued to work and set the feathers aside. She took care to make sure that she was getting every feather but worked fairly quickly and efficiently. Even when she knew full well she was being watched. She didn’t bother to look up to see who was watching until they spoke. The voice was one she instantly recognized and it finally had her slowing. She paused for a moment, a handful of feathers clutched in her fist as she turned and brought her eyes to study Pascal for a moment.

“I always come back,” Risa replied shortly before she looked back down and resumed her work. The statement was a half lie and a half truth. Risa did always come back and the only reason why she would never return was if people gave her a reason to leave. So far Janestown hadn’t spiraled into madness and no one was making insane rumors about Risa that would stir up a mob, so she had no reason to leave and never come back. Although, she was fairly certain that Pascal might have been happy if she didn’t return.

She didn’t even bother addressing the bit about not telling anyone she had left. She had never once told anyone that she would be going anywhere. Maybe she offhandedly would tell Jericho when she visited his place to get something made or fixed, but that was it. She came and went as she pleased and everyone was fine with that. If Risa was gone, she was gone. When she was back, she was back.

When Pascal offered to help, Risa stopped again and looked in his direction. She didn’t look at his face however. She was looking at his hands. From what she could see, those were the hands of someone that hardly worked a day in his life. Didn’t have to lift anything heavy and probably didn’t ever have to skin an animal. “How could you help?” she asked him, curious about his answer because it seemed like Pascal was bent on making Risa’s business his own no matter the task.

She didn’t outright respond, her gestures slowed and he set to watching the place with great interest. He had been by the butches many a time, and the sight of fresh catches hanging and laying around a place didn’t so much as clear his thoughts. The only thing he felt looking at them was the sense of their smell, a heavy burden on his lungs as he took in the stench of death. But it was food, food caught by the trapper in a matter of what seemed like hours, a good thing the sickness hadn’t pulled through into the smallest of species. At least God had left them with a source of nutrition. 

His eyes caught hers when she turned to face him, blood sticking from her feather clutching hand. She looked wild, but her eyes were stern, there was nothing about her that suggested he should even try to encompass her world. She was alone in that one, and he hated how much it interested him. In all his years he had met few women who took none of society’s means to heart, who caved their own path and had little interest in knowing what others thought of them. Yet, none had been so close to him as Risa was now. 

But she was clearly studying him too. Then upon her statement, she turned back to her work. Normally he might’ve gotten hungry from the sight of fresh meat, alas un-prepaired he knew what it could become. Now however, the mere sight of a woman plucking feathers filled his stomach with acid. 

Her eyes fluttered back to him once more, but it was his hands that she was interested in. Pascal had little knowledge of how to finish a kill, how to skin it or what parts were edible and which were not. But he made it his business to know the survivors, and Risa was on his list to keep an eye on. Risa and Dov were high up on that list, together with Charlotte. And he would wrangle himself in difficult positions to ensure he had the upper hand later on. He made a gesture with his hands. “A blank slate can be taught a great number of things. I’m a quick learner.” Which was semi-true, but alas, he didn’t think this part of the work would be so difficult. He didn’t want to try his hand at trapping. 

[pascal-deschamps]

The Dark Outside || Anne & Pascal

thexschoolmarm‌:

  Okay, DANKE. Even she knew that word. Maybe she wasn’t versed in the language, but a few main words that were often used, she could recognise. Though, she didn’t get a chance to hear them often in any language other than English, sadly. She did her best to teach the children in the school at least a little French to give them a taste of what else was out there in the world for them to explore and discover. She may have never left this town, but she wanted future generations of Janestown to know that the world was out there waiting for them if they wanted it. Even though she knew that most wouldn’t travel further than Saint Clemens, just knowing that she gave them the chance to know there were options out there was… not enough, but it was ALMOST enough. Maybe if she survived all of this, she would take her own advice and see more of the world and learn about the horizons beyond this town and the plains that surrounded it.

  That felt like a BIG if, these days.

  She didn’t want to know what people thought about her before, so she decidedly didn’t want to know now. She couldn’t meet anyone’s eye, not wanting to see the judgement, or worse… the PITY, that might be held there. The switch back to English throws her briefly and Anne can almost feel her brain switching gears when he speaks in her native tongue. “I don’t think this would be something easy to discuss in ANY language… but I appreciate the thought, at least,” she replied quietly, a ghost of a smile tugging the corners of her mouth for the briefest of moments before it died again. Biting back a soft sigh, Anne pushed a hand tiredly through her hair. She hadn’t been sleeping well at all and it was beginning to get to her. “Je peux dire que je ne veux pas le discuter…”

He had no trouble with her not wanting to talk about it, it wouldn’t be his subject of choice either, and he wouldn’t do the best job at trying to comfort her. He liked to keep very well away from women when they were starting to get emotional. But alas, in his case she was rather intent on not talking about it, in any language. “il n'y a pas besoin d'en discuter.” He paused, studied her again. There was barely any emotion in his voice, he didn’t seek to comfort her after all. “Je m'excuse de l'avoir soulevé.” He figured she was speaking in his own language to please him, or because she knew talking in another language might throw him off the subject. It did. Pascal liked talking in French more than he liked to discuss the feelings of others. 

“Je ne veux pas mettre fin à notre conversation de cette façon, mais j’ai le sentiment qu’ignorer ma montre pourrait ne pas plaire à d’autres,” he admitted. He did not mind talking for much longer in French, but she had simply wanted to offer him cafe, and he had instead roped her into a conversation. He didn’t them to get the wrong idea. “Merci de m'avoir permis de parler ma langue maternelle. Et Danke auch für den Kaffee.“ He switched quickly between the languages, but quickly enough for there to be a hint of accent. 

[pascal-deschamps]

charlotte-beaufort‌:

“I tried, I-” The defense slipped out in English. She looked over her shoulder, as if someone might overhear. The words tripped over themselves, which rarely happened for her. Charlotte Beaufort had a skillful tongue, but it failed her now. She was angry, at him for doing nothing, and at herself, for pretty much the same reason. Her blue eyes stung with tears, and she brushed them away impatiently. Partly because she was disappointed at herself for letting him get to her, but also because upon looking over her shoulder, she’d noticed some of the townspeople still watching her. If there was one thing Charlotte could do, it was to put on a show. And if there was one thing Monsieur Deschamps hated, it was being put on the spot.

Charlotte sniffed. Just loudly enough for the townspeople to hear—and talk, what had the gentleman said to the poor woman that upset her so?—but not too loud so as to cause alarm. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I, I’m just so alone here, and you’re the only person I know.”

‘And I’m the only person who knows you for who you are.’ But she didn’t have to say it for it to be abundantly clear. Monsieur Deschamps needed her just as much as she needed him.

This woman was impossible. he had to pinch himself, afraid he would roll his eyes if allowed. That wouldn’t sit well with the folk that had their eyes in their business. She knew they were watching, she knew and that was why she reacted like that. if his blood wasn’t already boiling, it would be now. “Calm yourself,” he hissed, but charmingly placed one hand on her shoulder as if to comfort her. It made him unsure if she truly felt responsible for the death of her colleagues, or if it was all an act. He had been too distant from the brothel to know much about it, just that they always wanted for his input to solve problems, and he would pay some money and hope the annoyance went away.

He figured all a brothel needed was some willing beautiful women, and they had that. Beautiful, and in this case crafty, women. Once again the threat was clear, but it didn’t have to be made this time, Pascal was well aware of situation. “Et qu'est-ce que tu veux de moi,” he responded, still in French, because he feared he was better at disguising his tone than his words. “Qu'est-ce que je dois faire pour m'assurer que vous ne courez pas votre jolie petite bouche.” He said it so sweetly that he figured he could ensure the people listening in on them figured he was trying to comfort her. They had obviously made it clear now that they knew each other, which meant he had to play it a different route. And right now the only one that was clear to hm, was giving in to her demands. One loud shriek from her, and he was done for. And perhaps she knew.

[pascal-deschamps]

Cheat || Clementine & Pascal

clementinexday‌:

She pushed her hair back away from her face, her fingers combing through the dark locks watching him closely. Whether he had cheated her in the past, Clem knew it didn’t matter anymore. He was the only one around that she hadn’t known for years. She felt as if she had been beaten in her own game, the first to give in to her old ways. It seemed like it was another lifetime that she was a working girl, and Clem was not meant for this new world. Clem bit her lip ever so slightly as she felt his hand come to a rest on her hip. It had also been a long time since she had been intimate with anyone. 

Clementine raised her brow as she listened to his words, like the devil on her shoulder telling her to listen to him. She wanted nothing more. But the thin fabric of the stained red shirt did nothing to block the heat from his fingers resting on her hip. She took one more glance at the window before turning back to him. There was no denying that she wanted this as much as he did. She took a step forward guided by his hand before he released her. Before she could think about it anymore, she took a step back. “Lets go then,” she breathed taking his arm pulling him off the porch. She walked down the deserted street towards the old jailhouse. 

Keep reading

Pascal felt his breath pause in his throat as he looked at her so close to his face, those doe-like eyes, though he feared she might not know what a doe was. The Wild West had its own collection of wild animals, but none as graceful as those that had nestled in the land of his youth. The women were neither as fair, they had lost a certain quiet beauty, much lost in the chaos of the place, most of them believing they had to keep up to a certain loudness in order to be seen. But while he still longed for everything he knew or had known, he had been among these people long enough to get used to the loudness. That was best he could describe it, because while this situation should not give him any such idea that it could not be compared to running off with ladies in Rotterdam or Amsterdam, there just was a roughness there, a loudness, and while he remained ever disappointed, he still went with it. 

He allowed himself to be stricken by her, the way she walked in front of him, took him with her through the died out town, and helped her to see only her, nothing of his surroundings. The jailhouse was close enough, but Pascal did proceed with caution, checking all the shadows for any movement, his shotgun in his hand, which he placed near the door, mentally taking note of its place just in case. 

His breath was caught again when in the dim light that came into the place through the few cracks in the walls, and the door, which Pascal had closed promptly. She took off her shirt and let it fall to the floor, the heat in his chest and his groin was excruciating. But even more so he was enjoying himself, the simple antics of human intimacy bringing a grin to his face. He placed his jacket on a random chair, and walked over to her. There was a certain difference between paying for his time with a woman, and charming his way into it. When he paid for it, he paid for his own pleasure, when he wooed a woman, he would claim hers as well. He had made a vow never to kiss a courtesan, his brother had always told him that kissing a paid woman was against the word of God. In all honestly, he had learned of the lies in those words, but he kept the vow. 

He pulled Clementine against him, one hand against the small of her back, the other encasing the back of her neck. And he kissed her, warm and wet, needy and dirty. 

[pascal-deschamps]

charlotte-beaufort‌:

If nothing else, she could take pleasure in the annoyance that she caused him. From what she’d gathered from their dealings in St. Clemens, Monsieur Deschamps hated to be caught off guard, preferring everything to be on his terms and his terms alone. The more she waited for him to come to her, the more time she would’ve been giving him to scheme something diabolical. Not to mention the fact that he already had the upper hand by arriving before her, and had plenty of time to make a name for himself.

What could he do for her, he asked, and it was all she could do not to laugh in his infuriatingly handsome face. “Vous pouvez vous excuser pour avoir abandonné vos employées,” she said, her voice almost cracking with anger and sadness for her fallen friends.

But then again, she had abandoned them, too, hadn’t she? Didn’t she lie awake at night, listening to their silent screams in her head? They deserved better than to die on the street, crying for help, for their mothers, for God. No one answered their calls, least of all Charlotte. But she needed someone to be angry at, and he was the only candidate. Charlotte took a deep breath, looking away. “Mais vous et moi savons tous les deux que cela ne va pas arriver.” He would never admit to any wrongdoing. It would damage his precious reputation.

Several passersby peered at them questioningly, and Charlotte gave them a dazzling smile. She extended the same to Monsieur Deschamps, pretending like they were simply having a cordial conversation. “Ils semblent vous aimer ici,” she pointed out.

She disliked speaking French to this man. He reminded her too much of her father.

The comment did little. Honestly, he hadn’t even thought about going back and helping others, not  his employees, nor friends. Not that Pascal was the kind to strike up platonic relationships. He was far too content keeping people at a safe distance. So he simply lifted an eyebrow when she suggested that he apologize. “A toi? Vous semblez être arrivé sans eux aussi.” He ignored the anger in her voice, he figured she was angry at herself for not being able to safe her colleagues, she just needed him to blame. “Je n'étais nulle part près de la maison close. Et je crois que tu l'étais.”

Alas, he was extra harsh towards her, almost too certain of his reputation around here. Miss Thomas was nowhere around, and as far as he was aware: she was the only individual aside from the two of them who was fluent in French. Though he would see it as a personal insult if those two started talking French to each other too. “Je n'ai rien à m'excuser, Mademoiselle Beaufort. Je n'aurais pas pu les sauver.” 

Pascal nodded to a few of the people passing by, but he kept his face stoic and distant, even her gorgeous smile wasn’t going to get him distracted. She might be a thing of beauty, but he knew underneath that she was a dirty whore. And the obvious threat got his blood boiling. “Nous faisons tous ce qu'il faut pour survivre.”

[pascal-deschamps]

charlotte-beaufort‌:

@pascal-deschamps

She knew he was here. He knew she was here. Still he firmly elected to ignore her, pretending like he couldn’t even see her, let alone know who she was.

Surprisingly, Charlotte had been a tiny bit glad to see his face upon her arrival to Janestown. In a town full of strangers, he was the only one she knew. Well, she had been stupid to think that the rise of the undead would change anything about Deschamps. He was just as unkind and selfish as ever.

Except the people of Janestown didn’t seem to know that.  She had spent the first several days observing not only him but everyone else here, and apparently the Frenchman had weaseled his way into town with his silver tongue, the same way he had done at St. Clemens.

It wasn’t pride on her part that was so vexed by the way he ignored her. He had already made it painfully clear to her just what he thought of her and her gender, let alone her profession. It was that he couldn’t even bring himself to ask after the girls that he employed, or even anyone from St. Clemens. Didn’t he have anyone that he cared about?

Not that it mattered. But she couldn’t go on like this forever, being annoyed at someone so inconsequential as Deschamps. So one morning she tracked him down, and cornered him just outside the General Store.

“Well, Bon-fuckin’-jour, Monsieur. Je suis surpris de te voir ici,” she said, her R’s perfectly French, the expletive perfectly American.

Pascal hadn’t cared about not being extremely obvious in avoiding the company of miss Beaufort. He was aware of his quick reactions when forced near her, and he was mostly aware of her glances in his direction. He hadn’t expected her to be here, he had hoped - and believed for a while too - that nobody had survived St. Clemens, or at least nobody that he had known. He had survived for years on the idea of going from place to place, meeting new people and being able to start all over without his previous failures keeping him from starting a new business. He was a survivor in that sense. 

But alas, he knew he couldn’t avoid her forever. She presented a problem, she was aware of his failed business, she was aware of his attitude. And he knew she couldn’t be allowed to threatened his reputation. He was gaining the trust of the survivors, he was trying to appear as a knowledgable individual, someone who could help in more of a leader role. If they knew about his bankruptcy, not to mention how he had not really paid much attention to his businesses and employees, he figured they re-think the way they viewed him. 

But before he could stage a face-off on his terms, she had taken that pleasure away from him. He could barely keep the annoyance away from his face, but quickly pulled back in his regular composure. There were few people around, barely anyone within earshot, and she was talking in French, meaning she didn’t wish to be overheard either. “Je ne te crois pas.” He eyed her quickly, noting that she looked as terrible as much of them, but still gorgeous under all that dirt. “Que puis-je faire pour vous, Mademoiselle Beaufort?” He hated having to talk French to this woman, he hated for her to still be alive, but the sooner they had made things clear between them, the better. She must understand that his standing among the survivors was a whole lot more solid than hers, if not, he would make matters clear to her. 

[pascal-deschamps]

The Dark Outside || Anne & Pascal

thexschoolmarm‌:

  She could easily RECOGNISE the German language, but she had no idea what the words meant. Other than the word for German. So, all she could really do was offer a shrug and a smile. “J'en ai aucun idée ce que vous avez essayé m'a dites, mais votre prononciation est exemplaire,” she said, almost wishing that she had studied more languages while at university. Then again, French had been hard enough to master, she wasn’t sure trying to do more than one language in the short amount of time that she had to study would have done her any favours at all. She was actually quite impressed with how SMOOTHLY he had switched from one language to another. It always took her a moment to switch to French and then another moment to switch out again when going back to English. So, interacting with someone who was clearly well educated in languages was a rare treat. And to have something like that in times like this was incredible and sort of the little morale boost she needed to almost feel NORMAL for a moment.

  She felt foolish even as the words left her mouth. She didn’t know this man well enough to be this OPEN about things and how she felt. She could only assume with was the intensity of her feelings that left her spilling what she would normally reveal to NO ONE to this man. Caught off guard in an emotional state and by the near normalcy of conversing with someone in another language. Still, it was said now, there was no taking it BACK. So, instead she tries to pull herself back and recompose herself. “Il y'a rien que je peux faire l'à-propos maintenant, mais je sais que je n'ai fait pas tous que j'ai pourrai pour eux…” she said quietly, jaw setting slightly before she looked up at the man again. “C'etait une erreure que je ne vais JAMAIS faire encore.”

“Danke.” An other smile, his pronunciation was excellent, but he never got tired of hearing it. He had tried to teach about five people who to speak German, thought few of them had been successful in picking it up. Due to other teaching possibilities. People liked the French Language a lot more, and he gladly taught them that. He noticed how genuine her compliment was as well, those weren’t rare either. There was a certain joy to showing off a skill and being recognized for it. And he had missed using the skill too, switching between languages, trying the taste of French, German, Dutch, and French. It almost made him wish to learn a fifth one, though he was saddened by the prospect that such was a dream for the future. And Pascal might act hopeful, but he figured there was little of a future left for them. 

It was clear that the subject had a certain affect on the young woman, and he couldn’t blame her. He wouldn’t like to live with the knowledge children had died on his watch. He figured those were the kind of nightmares that might send someone into insanity. He wondered if God would forgive her, or if He would simply test Anne beyond others, to allow her to redeem herself. Still, he decided to offer what comfort that he could, there was no reason for him to be honest about his reservations given the situation, simply because he worried about making her even more useless if he gave her the space to wallow in her feelings. “Might you feel better discussing the situation in English? I don’t mean to make it even more difficult on you having to speak of it in an other language. I know how hard it can be to do so. There is a certainty to feelings that one can best express in their mother tongue,” Pascal said, effortlessly switching. “Sauf si vous souhaitez ne plus en discuter“

[pascal-deschamps]

oliversouthby‌:

Southby considered the question with an audible ‘hmm’. “Either or,” He shrugged, either ignoring the man’s annoyed tone or not noticing it. At the younger man’s answer, Southby’s eyes widened. “France? Damn. Can’t rightly say I’ve ever traveled that far even if I went back & forth ten times the way I came. Guess we ain’t makin’ a very good impression on this side of the world, huh?”

Pascal laughed a bit at the suggestion, he wouldn’t say bad impression. The American Frontier was a young nation, he barely expected it to have the same delicate balance as an older nation such as France. He simply had to smile at even the suggestion, there was a certain manner to it, which he enjoyed. “If you mean the creatures out there, I wouldn’t directly connect those with the place itself. I do, or did in this case, really enjoy the roughness of this place as opposed to many other place I’ve visited.” Which was in a sense a lie, because he didn’t like the rough aspect of the Wild West, he enjoyed the business opportunities. “Have you lived here all your life, Deputy Southby?” 

[pascal-deschamps]

oliversouthby‌:

“I’m actually happy as a clam to share.“ Southby said, gesturing the bottle in the man’s direction. “Where you from anyway?” The deputy asked, looking the man over though not with any malice. The end of the world had appeared to bring out a more tolerable side of Oliver Southby. Though, his content, could also be attributed to the whiskey he had finally broken & procured. 

Pascal cocked an eyebrow, but went for the bottle nonetheless. He had always been a huge fan of alcohol, it made his belly feel warm and his brain light. He filled up the glass, and took a small sip, savoring the moment. It was a good moment. Despite being in company of the Deputy, one of them at least. “Recently or originally?” Pascal asked, getting a little annoyed by the question, or at least how it was asked. “I got here on the train from St. Clemens, I got there traveling all the way from France.” And he pronounced France as French as possible just to make that clear. 

[pascal-deschamps]

preacher-ainsley‌:

“People seem to think I’ll be startin’ a revival, dunkin’ ‘em all in the water and shoutin’ out blessings if they stay in the Church,” David said with a grin, nodding towards the building. “But it would be the smartest place to hole up, and I keep trying to help people see that. So far though, I’m the only one livin’ there.” The man’s admission of coming from France surprised him- many for the the big city had French accents because of the French Influence that came with the original settlers- he’d rarely met someone from the country itself. The journey across the ocean was a long and difficult one. “Seems like a lifetime,” David said with a small smile, “Life’s been good to me here, that’s for sure. Lord’s blessed us with prosperity and bountiful harvests year after year, what more could we want? Town’s peaceful ‘nough, and the Sheriff’s… well, was, a just man.” David’s smile faded, his eyes drifting over to the grave that didn’t look as old as the others, but not as new as the most recent ones. “This plague here’ll be a challenge. But I reckon’ we’ll get through it, if we can keep our wits about us and stick together.”

“I have nothing against dunking people into the water and shouting at them, but I do feel like our fear of the undead should be a little higher on the list than conversion,” Pascal responded with a grin of his own. “I could try and help to convince the Deputies, but they might not take my advice too much to heart,” he suggested. He however, would not ind the church, it gave a little less privacy, but it was a good place stay, lighter, less dusty. 

Seemed like a life-time didn’t mean all his life, but Pascal did not pry. He would, in different company, but he had forced himself to take it easy with the rest of the survivors, nobody had the same kind of attitude as him. Most of them were a lot more reserved, less keen on talking. Or maybe they held a kind of reservation for him. He had noticed how they looked at his hands, barely seen a days work, aside from... well, paperwork. 

Pascal could not help following the drifting house, the town was left to the leadership of the deputies after the sheriff got killed in one of the first attacks of the undead. He had heard vague notions of the situation, but he figured the town was worse off because of it. “Two very important qualities I am sure we can expect from the people here.” He paused. “Do you think God intended for this to happen? Or that it is beyond his control?”

[pascal-deschamps]

risa-shoji‌:

 Risa didn’t say anything, but she kept careful tabs on the rations being gathered and handed out. She was biding her time in the hopes of finding her horse so she could use her cart, but after all this time…. it was safe to assume that Clara had run away and was never coming back. Or more likely, she was just dead. 

With food supplies slowly starting to dwindle, she couldn’t wait any longer. So without a word, Risa slipped away two hours before the crack of dawn  with her own pack, belongings, weapons and supplies. It was an easy task since Risa was always quiet, most people were too put off by her to even bother looking her way, and almost everyone was asleep. 

It was a full day and a half before those on the outskirts of town would spot Risa making her way back. Only this time she was accompanied by a sizable amount of rabbits, squirrels and birds, tied together by their feet, bundled together and thrown over her shoulder. Each of them a clean kill. An arrow through the eyes or the throat. 

Fighting the fatigue in her muscles. Risa made her way to the town outpost where she would normally drop off her game. The place was a chaotic mess, everything tossed aside and strewn whichever way, but it was clear of undead and as clean as it normally was. Guess she lucked out there. Risa placed her kills on the hooks dangling from a line to keep them off the counters and tables while she cleaned them. Once she was done she grabbed one of the birds and began to pluck its feathers. As she worked she knew that she was being watched, but only chose that moment to speak. 

“If you’re hungry, I’m gonna need ya to give me a bit more time to finish here…” she said, not taking her eyes off of the half plucked bird in front of her

Pascal had not seen Risa sneak out, neither had the others, nobody had seen nor heard her as she left the General Store. And to his irritation, very few questioned her disappearance, she was a trapper after all, might be she had gone out to get them some more food. But he liked to question her motives in that regard, because if so, then why hadn’t she communicated with anyone about it. it left a sour taste in his mouth. He wasn’t angry, just worried. Risa might leave him with tons of questions, and he didn’t like women who figured they had no responsibility towards others, but she was important to the survivors. So if she did come back with some food to fill up their rations, he would be glad, but he still thought it was normal for him to at least be angry. Neatly tied up in his rich charm of course, being outright angry to someone was not the way a noble’s son was supposed to act. 

Someone else had spotted her first, and it hadn’t been until much later that Pascal learned that she had come back to town. He took up his shotgun and grunted to some other fellows who were either on or off duty that he was going to welcome her back, before setting off towards the towns’ outpost. He had spend four weeks not getting familiar with the layout of the town, and eventually made it his business to remember it as quick as possible. Janestown wasn’t big, and most of the town was build in the same pattern as towns on the American Frontier were, sprouted out from the ground with the most important buildings in close proximity together. 

He reached the outpost wary of his surroundings, but so far everything seemed safe. He entered the outpost as delicately silent as he could, maybe he figured he could sneak up on her, but that thought was quickly quietened, because he knew he could not. She responded to him after he had been making his way into the room, before he had the chance to say anything himself. Was he watching her? Perhaps, probably. Pascal tried to convince himself that he wanted nothing to do with her, that she fought the concept of women that had been so firmly in his mind, and that she wasn’t supposed to be like this. But on the other hand, just that excited him. Just the idea of this woman being more than what women were supposed to be. Conflicted feelings burned in the back of his brain as he fogged it over with the truth of the situation. 

“I figured you weren’t coming back. Running off like that without telling anyone,” he said, closing in on her. There was a need to shout at her, or at least to tell her that she needed to do something about her communication, but something stopped him dead in his track. “Do you need any help?” he asked, more out of manner than actually thinking he could be of help. He figured she would say no. 

[pascal-deschamps]

preacher-ainsley‌:

He nodded in agreement with Pascal’s assessment of the General Store. “I’ve offered the Church to quite a few of the folks, but non have taken me up on the offer yet,” David said with a sad smile. “I guess they figure it comes with some sort of strings attached, though I’ve assured ‘em it don’t.” At the other man’s mention of the world becoming dangerous, he nodded sadly in agreement again. A worn hand reached up and lifted his hat, the other running a hand through his hair as he let out a sigh before replacing the wide-brimmed hat. “Not sure of what kind of world it’s become yet,” The Preacher said, glancing out towards the horizon, beyond which lay the big city. “But I reckon we’ll find out soon, whether it’s the dead coming for more food after they’ve devoured the city, or the Army riding in to announce we’ve won.”  “Where’re you from, friend?”

“Strings attached?” he asked, wondering for a moment if the Preacher meant that faith was included. But despite having dealt with a number of different religions, that more or less believed in the same, Pascal never spoke about religion, meaning he was surprised to think that anyone would not believe in anything. He didn’t question God, he found it odd to even think about questioning Him. “If anything, it might be the safest, if not most hopeful place to stay.” But he wasn’t the leader, not the Deputy, and he found himself more likely to challenge their rule as time went on. 

“I’m going to be hopeful and pray for the latter.” He figured an army, armed with guns, aware of the situations, could deal with the Undead within an instant. He knew they could not. All they could hope to do was survive. “Originally, or before this happened?” he asked with a small smile. He didn’t think the emotion was well placed on a cemetery. “I’m from Bretagne in France.” And only Bretagne was said with such a heavy accent that it almost sounded French. Then he turned to the Preacher. “And you Preacher? Have you been in Janestown all your life?”

[pascal-deschamps]

The Dark Outside || Anne & Pascal

thexschoolmarm‌:

  While Anne was more than used to talking at length, it was most often with her students in lectures and studies rather than holding conversations with people closer to her own age. The ones she had grown up here with had long accepted the fact that she wasn’t overly social, preferring her books and writings to socialising. And she hadn’t even MEANT to do more than come out to give the man his coffee before taking a short walk on the safer streets and heading back inside, but Pascal seemed KEEN to talk, so she wasn’t going to deny him that chance. “Uh… pas vraiment. J'ai étudié le français et mon père connaissait un peu l'allemand, mais je n'y étais jamais très bon,” Anne admitted with a slight shrug. She thought German might have been easier than French since many English words had some Germanic influence, but she had found the language clunky in her mouth and it never flowed quite right. “Maintenant, je serai chanceuse si je peux me souvenir plus que cinq mots.”

  Her head came around sharply at the question about the children, the cold guilt she had almost managed to forget for a moment in their conversation wrapping itself tightly around her insides once again. Her gaze wasn’t suspicious, just a touch WARY as she tried to discern why he would be asking about the children. “A une fois… mais je pense qu'aucune personne veut que je le fait maintenant… et je ne peux pas leur blâmés,” she replied, her tone flat and soft now. Wrapping her arms around herself, Anne turned her head to stare down the lane, knowing the horrific scenes that lay just beyond her sight. “Il n'était pas nécessaire de terminer leurs études, mais j'ai fait ma mieux pour ceux qui étaient intéressés.”

He couldn’t help an other smile when she mentioned German. He thought his skills with languages would go extinct because he had too little practice, but it was like riding a bicycle, he just needed to take the first few steps to relearn it. The thing was that German was a language he heard more often around the American Frontier. French was just something rich families wanted their children to learn, but those children often had little interest in it. The older ones had interest in other things however, and he had spoken very little in their interactions. “Deutsch ist eine schwierige Sprache,” he said, grin spreading across his face. “En particulier, la prononciation.” He switched between both languages almost naturally, he had to admit that it was most difficult to speak English sometimes, while German, Dutch, and French seemed to be engraved into his nature enough that he didn’t have to think about it so much anymore. Although, German still remained somewhat of a challenge. He tended to use a lot of Dutch words from time to time. Because a lot of those sounded almost similar. He feared had he started to learn Catalan or Spanish, he would’ve met the same difficulties. Maybe he was being especially coy with his knowledge of languages, but it might be one of the few things he was proud of. One of the few things he knew he excelled in. 

When he answered followed, Pascal studied her, he had made a mistake asking about it, that much he had been certain about the moment the words left his mouth. But he had been so keen to talk that he just came up with subjects on the spot, hoping she would react, hoping they could continue to speak in French. He was surprised that despite the sudden wariness in her eyes, she still managed to answer in French, and due to it, he felt the need to be kind, rather than honest. “Vous ne devriez pas vous blâmer. C'était une situation terrible. Il y a peu, vous pouvez changer à ce sujet maintenant,” he offered. And he figured nobody would challenge her position of taking care of the children, in a way they would all have to do it, but she was most capable. Although, he gave everyone good reason not to trust her completely with it as well. They, Risa and Anne, had made a judgement call, clearly the wrong one, but they were women. Nobody could expect women to always make the right decisions. 

[pascal-deschamps]

dov-hevelsohn‌:

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.”

Maybe he was too far on the edge of suspicion, but he could feel his muscles tense when the stranger pointed at his shotgun. His heart suddenly skipped a beat and he could see the white on his knuckle where he was holding the shotgun up. There was a certainty in the other’s gaze, Pascal wondered if maybe he should throw him a bone and tell him his name, but he also felt as if in doing that he would give the other more reason to question him further. 

Despite the other’s comment, Pascal keeps the gun trained on the man, intent clear on his face, as he’s not about to let his advantage slip away from him. “This is not the best environment to go trusting people blindly,” he suggested, a frown on his face as he studied the other. He was reluctant stepping backwards, not wanting to give up his position, nor his balance. His father had taught him to stare danger into the eye directly, and to never give up anything until you were sure you knew the intentions of your opponent. Alas, he had never been the brother who had done the best in that regard. 

“So if you don’t mind, I’ll keep the shotgun up until I know there is no reason for me to have to.” He flexed his trigger finger for a moment. “How come you’re alone? Is everyone in Rockport dead?” There was clear suspicion in his voice, maybe even a hint of accusation. 

[pascal-deschamps]

preacher-ainsley‌:

“Mr. Deschamps,” The Preacher said cordially, tipping his hat slightly in the man’s direction in greeting. He didn’t know him well, but knew about as much could be expected by a man who just joined the town’s group of survivor a month before. “I appreciate the sentiment, my friend,” David said with a smile, acknowledging the man’s concern and validating it. He cast his gaze out across the empty landscaped and spotted the lone, shambling figure he’d been keeping his eye one. Human, judging by the shape and gait of the limp, but other than that it was too far out to determine any details. “However, I’m less alone than you might think.” He patted the butt of the revolver that hung from his belt, and he gave the man a smile. “Besides, I have the Lord’s house nearby,” Ainsley reasoned, glancing up at the spire in the sky. “As sturdy as they come, fortunately. Should it come to it, mightn’t be such a bad place for the townsfolk to hole up, if the need should arise.”  “The town treatin’ you alright since your arrival?” David asked, turning from the grave to offer the man a handshake. “I hope you’ve found our lot welcomin’ enough, despite the circumstances.”

Pascal followed the Preacher’s gaze out onto the empty land, he too saw a figure, but he wasn’t alarmed by it. Should he see more than one, that would be when he started to get concerned. He turned back when words were spoken again, nodding as the man patted his revolver. He still wasn’t thrilled with the idea of leaving the Preacher here alone, even if the Church could almost be considered a fortified hold-up. “It looks to be a less crowded place than the General Store,” he suggested. 

He had been less than frequent in visiting churches since he left his home in Bretagne and traded direct Catholic dictations for the more modernized Reformed church. Though he would never agree on “modernized”. The Dutch Reformed Church, which was the biggest religion still when he started studying in Amsterdam, was ruled more by the Monarch than by itself. It had little to no ties with Rome, and while they weren’t very honest in their opinions, there was cold blood between Reformists and Roman Catholics. America, as far as he had learned about the country, had a huge number of different religions, but none were as familiar to him as the church back home. He looked up at the church building, and still noticed his own reservations about the place. This was a Baptist church, and while he knew there were few differences, he didn’t care for having any religious discussions with anyone. 

Pascal gladly took the Preacher’s hand and shook it, a smile appearing on his face as he did. “As well as can be expected. I wouldn’t have even minded it if they had been more suspicious. The world became a more dangerous place in the last weeks,” he commented. He couldn’t say the town had been an interesting place to get stuck in, there were some interesting individuals, but the place was far too common for his liking. Not to mention he already got off on the wrong foot with some of them. 

[pascal-deschamps]

The Dark Outside || Anne & Pascal

thexschoolmarm‌:

  His smiles seemed to be getting kinder and more genuine. It helped, she supposed, that there was some flattery to be gained from her words. The foreigner definitely did strike her as the sort who would enjoy flattery, even it was passing and vague. Though, almost as soon as she had those thoughts, Anne scolded herself quietly. There was no sense in being judgemental of the others they were stuck with. They needed to rely on each other now. She couldn’t exactly afford to keep to herself like she was wont to do in her previous life. The thought of thinking of it as a previous life was painful, realising that NOTHING would ever be the same again. Even if this plague were to eventually pass, the losses they had suffered and the things they had done to survive it would leave them all forever changed. “Ça fait du sens… plus vous pratiquez quelque chose, plus vous serez performant.”

  Her laugh was barely more than an amused exhale, the tiniest shake of her head accompanying it. She was American born and raised, and taught her French by other Americans, as she had said, of COURSE she had an accent. She would never be a Francophone. “Au moins que vous pouvez me comprendre,” she mused with a small smile. The thought of trying to be OPTIMISTIC in this sort of situation was nearly laughable. “Je pense que nous pouvons être pardonnés si nous ne sommes pas optimistes avec tout ce qui se passe.”

Pascal’s thoughts were mostly happy, he didn’t care for the woman but that she talked in the same language as he did. It was a nice change of pace, and he could keep at it forever, because he certainly had enough to talk about. It felt like he could finally loosen his tongue after all this time - although Pascal had never been someone who didn’t talk a whole lot. “Parlez-vous d'autres langues que le français?” he asked, small-talk, anything to keep it going, anything to ensure he could continue speaking it. He wouldn’t even mind if she spoke English back to him, as long as he could continue to express himself properly. He was even slightly forgetting his initial reaction to her. She was slightly higher on his list now, for at least she managed to keep up with him, and that was in itself impressive. 

“Exactement,” he responded, the grin remaining. “Ah, vrai. Ce n'est pas si simple. Si seulement.” He looked at her then, wondered if by just talking he could continue a conversation and not have his reservations about her. He needed something to live on at this moment, and talking about the dead town wasn’t such a great subject. “vous prenez soin des enfants, non?“ His gaze moved back to the General Store. He had seen a lot of kids around the place, but he figured there had been more. “Connaissent-ils le français aussi?“ he added, hoping to make it a little lighter.