Sophronia on RolePlayer.me - www.roleplayer.me/outoftime1888 Sophronia

Other
117 years old
Reynolds, Georgia
United States

Last Login:
February 06 2023

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    Sophronia's Interests
General-----------------------------INTERESTS----------------------------
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Sophronia Winters "If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that." --Stephen King


Please don't ask a/s/l - I don't have time for that. I'm here to write, to have fun, to create and exchange inspiration not measurements. I don't care if you're male/female/or gender fluid - as long as you remain in character, we can role play.


"The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself." --Albert Camus





Adapt or perish... If you fell down yesterday, stand up today.
If we don't end war, war will end us.

Our true nationality is mankind. H.G. Wells

Sophie went into the trailer and found her notebook. She'd bought it in an Atlanta bookstore to carry as an accessory to her steampunk costume. That was just before the ComiCon. She'd planned to use it for autographs but the world had gone to hell and now it was a vital part of her survival. She was glad she'd splurged for the leather folding volume with the leather straps that secured and closed it. Now she used it to document the different wild edibles she'd found and note their texture, use, and location. It was something to do in her spare time, after dark, when it was scary being alone. She'd learned the love of patient drawing and note taking while she'd studied at the University of Georgia toward a degree in Food Science.

Adult themes ***** Graphic Descriptors, Action & Violence ***** Writers must be 21+

Food For Thought

“We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it.” – George Orwell, 1984

PLEASE REMEMBER TO SPAY OR NEUTER YOUR WEREWOLVES. My replies may be short or slow in response - I type very s-l-o-w-l-y
A badass with any weapon, this self-proclaimed red-neck is a hero to many but don't let him know you said so. He's just kicking zombie-ass and to heck with names. He's hot and loaded for bear. Approach with caution.
Hard-Boiled
Dark as death and twice as cold. This soldier of the apocalypse shoots first, doesn't bother with names, and let's someone else sort them all out later. Do not approach unless you're right with God.
Valenti

Often ignored by his alcoholic parents when he wasn't engaging in the rigorous militia training where weapons, especially explosives became an expertise for him, Troy ran wild on the ranch as a child, practicing dissection on local wildlife from the age of six onwards, taking copious notes in his ‘research’ notebooks concerning his ‘scientific practices’. Once the apocalypse hit, he became fascinated by the reanimation process of dead bodies turning into rotters to the point of timing the transitional period of an untold number of unwitting victims. Setting up a death camp in a military base at the border between Mexico and California was his reaction to being sent there by his father for being a danger to the survivors living on his father’s ranch. He tends to always leap for the most destructive options in every scenario, impulsive with a short fuse on his temper, yet a seasoned fighter and leader while wildly loyal to his own causes as twisted as they may be.
Troy
She's one bad-ass apocalypse Mama. Don't get between her and her loved ones. Don't infringe on her turf, and definitely do NOT steal her hammer!
Madison

This former teacher turned narcissistic psychopath is not to be engaged with unless you're ready to dance with the devil and his partner Lucille.
Trigger Warning!
This formidable woman, this doctor calls the shots – the only trigger warning you’ll get is one that comes armed with a bat.
Dr. Lisa Cuddy

This warrior survived the apocalypse but you may not survive him. Make no mistake, he may change his shape to suit the need of the situation but he's no pussycat.
{Weretiger}John Quinn
The Apocalypse world is just the Beginning for Alicia Clark. Darkness had overtaken her for a long time, but after she'd pulled away from it she was able to be herself once again. She yearned to help those who needed her particular skills. Alicia is fierce, strong, and always known for her good heart.
FierceFighter Alicia Clarke

An interesting and complex man from across the pond. This gent has a knack for ghost-busting as well as a bad-boy reputation. Ladies watch out especially if you’re spectral.
Rawr!
This wee Hobbit is a friend of the Steampunk Medic. Do not disturb the flora nor fauna or the wrath of the wood folks will be upon you.
Lily Took

Imagine your Bio here - New writers may be accepted after messaging.
New Writer
Bio
Stranger/Lover


“To learn what we fear is to learn who we are, Horror defies our boundaries and illuminates our souls.”
---― Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House
Music
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The Diary of Sophronia Winters:

A great horror story about a new bride, a madman, and an hotel with 125 deserted rooms! The story was subsequently produced on "Suspense" on August 17, 1944 and on August 10, 1958. Sophronia (Moorhead) is enjoying a holiday in Florida when she meets the man of her dreams. H. Johnson is strong, generous, poetic, deep, thoughtful, handsome - in short too good to be true. Sophronia is well and truly smitten with him. For the remainder of her holiday he treats her like a Queen. In the end marriage is inevitable, but what exactly is Sophronia letting herself in for. Is her bridegroom as perfect as he seems or is he hiding a sinister secret?



So don't sue me - I liked the name Sophronia Winters but please don't confuse it with "My name is Victoria Winters" prologue to Dark Shadows and while an excellent soap in its day, I don't want to write Dark Shadows over again. ;)



Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. - Frederich Nietzsche.




When all that we see, or seem, Is but a dream, Within a dream. ---Edgar Allan Poe.
PERSONALITY TRAITS


SENSORY PROCESSING SENSITIVITY (SPS) The defining trait of highly sensitive persons, characterized by the increased depth of processing of sensory input that underlies HSPs' greater proclivity to overstimulation, emotional reactivity and empathy, and sensitivity to stimuli.

INTROVERSION Introverts tend to be more quiet, reserved, and introspective. Unlike extroverts who gain energy from social interaction, introverts have to expend energy in social situations. After attending a party or spending time in a large group of people, introverts often feel a need to "recharge" by spending a period of time alone..

TYPE OF TRAVELER As a Pioneer, your personality fits between Venturers and those more in the center of the personality spectrum (“Voyagers”). You share a number of characteristics in common with pure Venturers. You like to travel, especially to foreign destinations and you seek new experiences and new destinations for almost all trips you take. You are also physically active at home and on trips. But, unlike your pure Venturer friends, you don’t want to take such extreme vacations and are more likely to plan your trips-set an itinerary of places you want to visit and schedules when you will be there. You also have more company.

About 17% of the population has a personality that matches yours, vs. only 4% for pure Venturers.

The personality traits listed above are samples from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trait_theory#List_of_personality_traits

OTHER INFORMATION

LIKES Music, writing, botany, chemistry and comicons
DISLIKES Perfection - only through imperfection are we inspired to reach higher and further than before.
QUIRKS Dresses in Steampunk fashion and attends comicons in spare time.
HABITS Smokes 'weed', gets lost looking at plants.

The WAR OF THE WORLDS -The Eve of the War:No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire over matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do the same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources of human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life upon them as impossible or improbable. It is curious to recall some of the mental habits of those departed days. At most terrestrial men fancied there might be other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to themselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise. Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.
So much universe, and so little time.-

Goodness is about what you do. Not who you pray to. - from Snuff-

--Terry Prachett
Movies-----------------------------MOVIES-------------------------------
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D
= Is for drama. It's great for stories - let's keep it there."
FAVORITE MOVIES (BOOKS ARE TOO NUMEROUS TO MENTION)
THE CHANGELING,
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD,
THE STAND (1994),
THE CELL,
BRAM STOKER'S DRACULA,
YOUNG SHERLOCK HOLMES,
H.G. WELLS THE TIME MACHINE,
H.G. WELLS WAR OF THE WORLDS
IDENTITY,
BUTTERFLY EFFECT,
TIME AFTER TIME,
SILENCE OF THE LAMBS (1991),
FREQUENCY,
THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE (2018),
DEAD AGAIN,
TIMELINE,
THE LEGEND OF HELL HOUSE,
LADYHAWKE
THE HOBBIT/LORD OF THE RINGS
DRAGONHEART
....OH MAN, THIS LIST IS TOO LONG AND I'M STILL NOT DONE.
Quotable: I would say trust your own judgment and develop your own style that is true in your heart and don't be deterred from that. Just develop that something that's unique to you that you feel you can give. Be true to yourself, trust your own judgment; that's all.-- Justin Hayward-The Moody Blues
Character Facts
PH.D. IN PLANT BREEDING GENETICS AND GENOMICS A minimum of 36 credit hours is required to graduate comprised of: 27 hours of coursework (a minimum of 16 hours of 8000-9000 level credits) excluding 9000/9005/9300 6 hours of research (PBGG 9000) 3 hours of dissertation writing (PBGG 9300) The following courses are required for graduation: Communication and Research Seminars (PBGG 8860 & PBGG 8861) Plant Breeding (PBGG 6140) Advanced Plant Breeding (PBGG 8140) Plant Breeding Practicum (PBGG 6000) Plant Genetics (PBIO 8100 or PBGG 8890 or comparable) Statistics (STAT 6315 or FANR 6750 or higher) Statistics (PBGG 8010 or STAT 8200 or comparable) Ph.D. Research Prospectus
Full Name: Sophronia Winters
Nicknames: Soph or Sophie
Aliases: Roni
Date Of Birth: September (Virgo)
Place Of Birth: Athens, GA.
Current Residence: Reynolds, GA.
Ethnicity: Some
Hair Color: Blackish-brown
Eye Color: Black
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 135 lb., 9.286 stone
Birthmarks/Scars: None prior to apocalypse.
Family: Deceased
Sexual Orientation: Only freshmen need orientation
Relationship Status: Not shipped
Current Relationship(S): Staying alive
Past Relationship(S): Are in the past
High School Taylor County High School
College University of Georgia
Major Botany w/minor in chemistry
Degree Doctorate: College of Agricultural and Environmental Sciences
Occupation: Professor
Job Description: Faculty
Employer: U of GA
Skills:Study of microbiology, chemistry and engineering, makes medicines, weapons, and foods, from plant/natural based sources

«WELCOME TO THE TWILIGHT ZONE, I'M YOUR USHER.»
,


Copyright 2015, 2022. All rights reserved.


“A love of nature keeps no factories busy.”

--― Aldous Huxley, Brave New World-
Television-----------------------------TV---------------------------
I am a woman in the prime of life driving her dead poet in a black Rolls-Royce through a landscape of twilight and thorns.
Heroes
Groups: The Trailer not far from the Ranch,

     Sophronia's Details
Body type:Average
Ethnicity:No Answer
Height:0"0'
Characters: Soph, Sophie, Fina, Ro, Sophronia.
Verses: The Walking Dead, Time Machine, Gothic Horror
Playbys: Alexandra Ivanchenko
Length: Multi Para, Novella, One Liner
Genre: Custom, Heroes/Villains, Horror, Supernatural, Suspense, Undead,
Member Since:February 14, 2018




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Sophronia's Latest Blog Posts  [Subscribe to this Blog]

The Dr is In - Gaslighting & RP  (view more)

Past behaviour vs future ego rewards  (view more)

OOC: You appear to have been infected by other's thoughts  (view more)

I need to see some I.D.  (view more)

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Sophronia's Friends Comments
Displaying 10 of 38 comments (View All | Add Comment)
Hard-Boiled.

Jan 30th 2023 - 8:49 PM


Shade and his horse both tilted their head to the side as they heard the definitely feminine voice call out weakly. One of the missing women. Shade released the reins of his horse but still kept his hand close to the butt of his holstered revolver as he moved back to the wagon. With his left hand he pulled back the tattered remains of the wagon covering.

He expected to see a white woman, probably wounded, likely scalped. He wasn't prepared for what he saw. The woman was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and olive toned skin. For a moment he thought she was a Native until his gaze swept over the unusual clothing. Flamboyant, colorful, not buckskin, nor the plain cotton gingham that some Native women chose to wear to blend in with their settler counterparts.

As the woman half turned to stare at him, he realized her hair was tied to one of the wagon's bands.

“Witko,” he mumbled as he hoisted himself into the wagon and crouched down next to her.

He could tell by her expression that she recognized the name.

Shade had heard of this woman. She was some gypsy roamer, lost her husband a while back and made her way and reputation by herbal healing, snake oil medicines, and fortune telling. He had never met her, but had listened to the tales told by soldiers, trappers, even some of the Natives who held her to be a bit touched.

That would explain why she was virtually untouched and tied in a show of, saw you, acknowledged you, and not going to touch you, bondage.

With a pull of his knife, Shade edged his blade against the thick strands of hair double knotted.

“Wait, nono, please, don't cut my hair.”

Shade debated for a moment, staring down at the pleading eyes. He was surprised at the beauty of the youthful face that half-turned up at him. He had expected the face of the woman to match the legend of the woman. Or at least the legend of an old Romanian etch-lined and wrinkled gypsy woman who mumbled over foggy crystal balls, and reeked of strings of garlic hung from the sides of a wagon.

This woman was young, had high cheekbones, a small straight nose, and full sensual lips. Her eyes, rounded, and long lashed, were such a deep brown that they were nearly black. She could almost pass for a Native woman except that her face was more oval, her lips more full. And now the face was contorted in a wordless plea.

With a shake of his head, Shade sheathed his knife and began the tedious task of tugging, twisting, and untangling the thick locks of hair. On one level he was aware of how soft the strands were and how they smelled of soapwort and lavender. On another level he was fighting the urge to just cut it and be done. He wanted to move on from here as soon as possible and he was aware that he wouldn't be able to just leave this woman here – alone and without a way to get back to a fort or town, neither of which was close enough to walk to.

It took him over twenty minutes to finish the task, a time in which neither he nor the woman spoke. Shade was aware that she was measuring him up, as well as listening for any return of the attackers. Outside of the wagon he could hear his horse making a leisure pacing around the decimated camp. Dead bodies didn't bother his horse, she had seen her share of death, and been ridden in a lot of battles before she found her way to Shade.

Nanabah was getting thirsty and they had been on their way to a nearby canyon where there was fresh grass and clean water – if he didn't finish up soon, she would leave without him.

She would return of course, as her name – she who returns from battle – meant, but he didn't like the idea of hanging around here waiting, or walking.

As the last of the tied tangle was freed, Shade nodded to the woman and jumped down out of the wagon.

“Grab what you need,” he said over his shoulder as he made his way over to his mare who called out to him with a high-pitched whinny. He gathered up her reins and led her over to the wagon, quietly soothing her in Sioux, assuring her that they would soon be on their way to water. As he looped the reins to the ring on the side of the wagon, he called out to the woman again.

“Name's Shade. Horse is thirsty and I ain't got much water left.”

Shade tugged his canteen from its tie to the saddle horn, pulled the cork, took a swig, then passed it over to the woman. “Here. Be quick, I want to get on out of here.”

 

 

Hard-Boiled.

Jan 12th 2023 - 10:55 PM


The grim trail of smoke rising up in the morning sky alerted Shade to the fact that once again, something was wrong. Wrong things had become an almost daily event out here now. He stood next to his horse, loosely holding the reins as the beast grazed on the dew damp grass and scrub and stared at the horizon line.

He squinted his eyes as he tried to make out the distant shapes nearing the bottom of Split Rock. There appeared to be twenty or so riders, Sioux he thought. And moving away from the column of smoke.

Shade gathered up the reins of Nanabah, his blue roan mare and hoisted himself into the saddle. He gave her a pat on the shoulder, then leaned back and gave a slight kick to urge her forward.

Nanabi's ears twisted back and she nickered as she caught the smell of the smoke and realized her rider's intent. For a moment she hesitated, back stepped and shook her head, the dark mane rippling down her shadowy sides.

“I know girl, but we gotta check.”

He rode slowly, giving more time for the Lakota warriors to move on. He knew that if he saw them, they also saw him, but he wasn't too concerned. He traded with the natives, allied himself with the Lakota, fought alongside them against the Cree once; they weren't interested in him, only in the white wagons that continued to invade their territory and force them into retaliating against broken promises and treaties.

The recent treaty of 1868 was supposed to end the fighting. Whites were warned to stay out of the Indian lands and the government promised to enforce the borders. But the Oregon trail cut across this area and despite the warnings, some folks still tried to cross the lands. The army had deserted their line of forts and only a few weeks ago, the natives had celebrated by burning all of the abandoned buildings. It was thought to be a time of newly gained freedom from the never-ending trail of the white snakes that devoured everything in their sight. It wasn't though, and what the soldiers didn't enforce, the native warriors did.

As Shade neared the smoking remains and charred wagons, his eyes scanned the area for survivors. It appeared to have been a small group of travelers. Out of the four wagons, only one wagon still stood nearly untouched, the others were smoldering or smashed in. A few horses lie dead in their rigging, but the rest were gone. No doubt spoils for the victors.

Shade guided his horse into the half-formed ring, then dismounted, and signaled his horse to stay. Nanabah uneasily began to yank on a tuft of dried grass as Shade began to search the battle field. He paused near the first two bodies he approached. Two middle-aged men, one riddled with arrows, the other with bullet holes laid sprawled in the dirt in the middle of the half-formed circle of wagons.

As Shade flipped the arrow riddled body over with a nudge of his boot, to his surprise, he could tell that the man was Shoshone. The man wore a trapper's shirt, but it was ornately sewn with colorful beading of Shoshone design. His pants were simple buckskin and his feet were clad in moccasins that were outlined with the same beading as his shirt. The thick black hair and brown hues of his skin left no doubt of his heritage.

Shade stepped over to the other man, but quickly determined that this man was white. Multiple bullet holes pocked his body and his swollen tongue protruded past gaping lips as if he was shouting a protest as his brutal death. Brothers by marriage possibly, and definitely in blood, he thought as observed their once back-to-back position as they made a valiant last stand.

He turned from these two and carefully began a check of the wagons. Their first two were burnt to smoldering heaps of bolts, boards, and ash. The third one still stood despite one wheel busted and laying on the ground, which left the wagon at an odd stilted angle. Three more bodies, two white men and one more Shoshone man hung over the tongues and sides of the smoldering wreckage. The native man's shirt appeared to have been slashed with a knife and hundreds of small blue beads littered the ground below. This man's body was skewered with arrows too, but also several bullet wounds, one which had burst though the front of his throat, nearly decapitating him.

Shade shook his head. Mixed-bloods, he wondered to himself as he crossed to the fourth wagon that still flickered with dying flames.

The once white canvass was in tatters, and smoke singed, revealing the hard curves of the metal bands fastened to the sides of the wagon.

Shade hoisted himself up on a wheel rim and stared down into the half shell of the wagon. The bodies of three teens, two males, one female, were splayed out along the bottom of the wagon. The two youths, a brother, perhaps a boyfriend – lay on either side of her as if had they defended the girl until they drew their last breaths. Painful ones he surmised by the number of bullet holes riddling both their bodies. They fought hard. They died hard.

Some of the boards beneath them were charred and by the blistered flesh along one of the boy's hands, he had desperately tried to quell the flames with his own body.

His shirt was half melted into the chest on the left side, the material on the right side torn as if he, or someone, had attempted to pull the shirt off and failed. It appeared the pain of the burns was ended by the huge gaping bullet hole through the boy's heart. The chest and abdomen were coated in congealed and charred blood; and from what Shade could tell, the chest wasn't even mature enough to sport hair yet.

The other boy had half his face blown off, a skeletal jaw bone protruding from the wound, and an eyeball swinging down by a thin bit of sinew. On the far side of the wagon's interior Shade could see splatters of brain tissue and flesh.

Between the two males, was the body of the girl. Her blue eyes stared endlessly upward toward the sky, a crimson mottling across the front of her gingham dress. She had been shot once in the abdomen, and twice in her right arm. The shoulder was twisted back, nearly behind her as if she was stretching to brush her hair, but instead of a brush, her fingers were knuckled around a revolver. The weapon appeared old and while still usable, not considered valuable enough to be taken from a dead woman's hand as a trophy. It had been left in her young hand, almost as if in tribute to her brave fighting spirit.

Interwoven in young woman's inky black hair was a red bow that ended in a bright array of bead work.

Mixed-bloods for sure he confirmed to himself. Ones that didn't really seem to fit in either world and for they and theirs, as likely to fall prey to white and native alike.

Shade stepped down from the wagon wheel and surveyed the encampment again. Those men must be these children's fathers. But, where were the women, the mothers and wives?

Retracing his steps back to the two men lying in the dirt, he scoured the ground for footprints. Men's boots and moccasin tracks lead from the wagons to this area where the men made a desperate last stand. Perhaps hoping to draw the attackers away from the youths in the wagon.

Shade kept his eyes to the hardened ground as he paced the area until finally he found what he was looking for. Scuffed moccasin tracks, smaller than the boot prints, several of them moving back and forth between two of the wagons. Likely loading and reloading for the men, defending the young also, fighting for their families until – here...Shade crouched once more and skimmed his hand along a cluster of feminine tracks interspersed with horse tracks. Indian ponies for sure, no signs of metal shoes.

As he stood he stared over toward Split Rock where had seen the retreating warrior band. The women, likely native themselves, had been taken. Either to be punished for marrying with white men, or to be traded back or hostaged to their own tribes, he couldn't know for sure.

With a sigh, Shade swiveled his sights over to the last wagon. The canvas had several bullet holes, and a few arrows protruding from the weathered boards along the sides. The horses were gone, the traces hung empty, and abandoned reins flapped in the wind. But the wagon didn't show any of the ransacking or burning that the rest had undergone. It was set further away from the others, as if it had joined the hastily made circle at the last moment, or was intentionally left out of the ring.

Shade slowly pulled his gun from the holster and clicked his tongue to signal Nanabah to follow. The horse's head jerked up and with a jangle she stepped forward, her head shaking side to side to protest. The horse knew the smell of blood and smoke and paced along behind her owner in protesting unease.

Not knowing what he might find in the last wagon, Shade wanted to be sure his mount was close by in case he needed to make a fast retreat.

Could be that this wagon was left relatively unscathed because someone inside had a sickness, smallpox, or dysentery.

Perhaps it was even someone who was wasicu witko as the natives called it, the white-man madness.

White people who seemed so overwhelmed by the expanse of the west, of the inhospitable conditions, the drought, the heat, the bitter cold, the thousand and one ways to die out here, that their minds seemed to literally unhinge.

If it was the wasicu witko, he risked being shot himself. He'd seen people who went so mad they didn't even know their own wife or husband. They were lost in a dark world of their own and most simply took their own life, or wasted away from dehydration or starvation.

Shade c*cked his revolver as he neared the wagon and paused. He could hear a sound from within the canvass closed interior. Was that a voice? A whimper? Moaning?

Behind him he could hear Nanabah snort as her nostrils flared. She could smell something pungent, tangy – Shade could too, but he couldn't fix on what the smell was.

At the sound of the snort, the voice within the wagon fell silent. For several minutes there was only the sound of the wind and metal rigging clanging and Shade began to doubt what he heard when he caught a sighing ripple, the tiniest shuffle of movement, then silence again.

Sh*t, this was going to be a stand off. Whoever was in that wagon didn't seem to be inclined to come out or look around, and he sure as hell didn't want to look inside and risk getting his head blown off. He had to make up his mind, pursue his curiosity, or cut out now, mount up, and ride away. If whomever was inside was someone the Indians wanted to avoid, he felt pretty sure that he did too.

He kept hold of his revolver and slowly reached back to grab hold of one of his horse's reins. His mare stepped sideways, positioning herself so he could step back and mount her. Shade had just backed up to the side of the horse and was about to lift one leg into the stirrup when he caught the whispered words of a woman's voice saying,

“Wait...don't leave me.”

Stranger/Lover

Dec 18th 2022 - 10:59 AM


Sophronia

Oct 29th 2022 - 12:57 PM


Ty!!! Happy Halloween to you all. My lovelies.
Rawr

Sep 30th 2022 - 4:06 AM


Haha it's who turns the steal into cash. That one gets boss points. We're just the chumps that weep over the keyboard so let moneymakers be alphas and say who gives a damn.  Life gets easier when you stop wasting time on what's who's.
Valenti.

Apr 17th 2022 - 4:06 PM


Pin on . King of Cool
Troy

Aug 26th 2021 - 10:08 PM


You're welcome, ma'am, of course -respectfully salutes her-
Hard-Boiled.

May 23rd 2020 - 10:47 AM


Daryl watched as Sophie took the plate and headed up toward the stairs. He found it interesting that Sophie seemed to almost like his brother. Merle was not an easy person to like. Hell, even he didn't like Merle half the time, but he was blood.

He turned his focus back to Beth as she chattered on about some song she was writing – some song about surviving the apocalypse. Daryl snorted silently. The girl was young, she seemed to almost find a sense of romanticism through all of the this hell. Her way of coping with it he supposed. Everyone had a different way.. Maggie by bonding with Glenn and going for the old fashion two-becomes one path. Michonne by pouring her angst through a sliver of steel.

Carol survived through diverting her energy to people watching, learning them, discovering what made them tick, mentally moving them around in her mind like pieces of a chessboard – moving them or removing them as needed for the sake of winning the game. Daryl understood that, but was wary of it too. People like that could begin to lose sight of an individual's value and anyone could become expendable. Even him.

Carl took that moment to distract Beth from her Daryl hover, asking her to help him with Judith and Daryl gave the teen a hidden high sign. Carl was probably the healthiest of the group. Young enough to adapt, hopeful enough to see a new way for the future – hell, to see a future period. That's what was hardest for the adults. The old ways were gone, the old normal was gone – and they were all floundering to determine what was the 'right' normal.

Rick – well, Rick had broken. Daryl wasn't sure if he was going to come back from his fugue or not. He hoped he would, he liked Rick, hell, he had chose Rick over his own brother Merle. But he also knew that he couldn't help Rick, this was a battle with inner demons he was going to have to fight alone or go down alone.

A murmur of voices from above pulled Daryl's gaze to the second level. He could see Sophie sitting on the floor, talking animatedly to Merle. She was a new element to the group – and he wasn't sure where she was going to fit on the periodic table of survivorhood. She was optimistic, but almost in a naive way. She was going to have to toughen up, but he thought she could do it.

As the voices rose above him he stood. Before he could head for the stairs, he felt a touch to his arm and looked down to see Carol who had slid over to take Beth's vacated seat.

We need to talk about Rick,” she said, tugging him to sit back down. Daryl did so reluctantly. He braced his elbows against the table and clasped his hands together, turning his face toward her.

Alright – talk.”

Carol held back a smirk. She knew this look of his – the look that said he had already made up his mind about something but was going to listen – then keep on doing and thinking whatever he had already decided.

Fair enough. You know he's not thinking right. He's seeing things, hearing things....”

What does doc say,” asked Daryl.

Carol shrugged. “He's a veterinarian. Not a people doctor, not a shrink.”

Don't reckon he's seen a crazed dog before?” queried Daryl.

Sure, but that's not...”

We're all animals.” stated Daryl flatly.

Carol pulled down the corners of her mouth. “We shoot mad dogs.”

Daryl nodded. “When we have to.”

Well, maybe there's a need.”

Daryl shifted and looked past her to Carl who sat talking with Beth as she rocked Judith.

He's all those kids got left.”

They got all of us too.”

And any of us could be gone at any moment. Tell ya what – Doc says he's a danger, then we'll talk.”

Carol nodded dubiously. “I'll talk to Doc.”

Daryl stood up. “Don't do nothin' but talk.”

Carol grinned. “Me?”

Daryl bumped her arm with his hip before he turned and walked away. “Yeah, you.”

As Daryl started up the stairs he could hear Merle's voice, “Hell, you're like a little jackerdaw, 'cept you talk like your bigger cousin the magpie.”

He heard Sophie laugh at his bother's comment. About the only women he ever heard laugh at Merle's words were truck stop gals, so he wondered what Sophie saw in Merle's rough and harsh crudeness that she could accept and even appear to enjoy.

Hell, there's the prince himself now.” Merle leaned against the bars and dangled his forearms out.

What the hell ya goin' on about now?” asked Daryl as he sat down next to Sophie.

You're the damn hero here.”

Nah, I'm jest survivin'.”

Yeah,” Merle shook one of the bars of his cell. “Some of us better'n' than others.”

Daryl glanced over to Sophie, then back to Merle. "Says someone who got their dinner served on a platter."


 

Hard-Boiled.

Nov 26th 2019 - 10:19 PM


Daryl had listened to her explanations, following some of it, understanding part of it, and admiring her enthusiasm. At least she hadn't lost that – yet. It was easy to lose any kind of hope or enthusiasm living in this sh*t-hole world.

He didn't know all of the whys, but he could understand the benefit of having more ways to protect their fragile home. He had already seen how quickly the farm had been over run, and while they had fences here at the prison, they could fall and mayhem could easily ensue.

He was so intent on listening and working out what she was showing him that he was startled when she took hold of his hand. He let it remain against hers for a moment as he heard her question. “Carol said I shouldn’t make bombs and explosives. She says it’s better to concentrate on fertilizer and health issues. What do you think? Should I stop this?

He considered if for a moment, then untangled his hand from hers and laid her hand on the table. “The work you do here,” he tapped her hand against the table top. “This is important – it's like a bit of the old world being brought forward to help the new.” He stood back from her and gestured around the room. “Ain't nobody else here understands this like you do – it's important. Hell, don't let Carol or anyone else tell you what to stop or start.”

“We need all of the things you mentioned, yeah, would help to have fertilizer and medicine, but hell, we can scavenge a lot of that. But munitions, bombs, firepower – that's harder to find. Lots of it has already been taken, used, hoarded. And most of it by not so nice people. Assholes who won't hesitate to use it against us – against anyone.”

“Tell ya what, I'll get Carl later and we'll bring the chalkboard over for ya.”

Daryl rubbed his chin, realizing how much stubble rested there. “If there's a library, don't know where it is. A lot of this prison is still haunted with walkers.” He wagged a finger at Soph. “Don't go exploring by yourself. You'll git yourself killed.”

“C'mon, let's go get some food, then rest.” He touched her elbow and guided her out of the workroom, knowing she would rather stay and work, that she was uncomfortable around the others. He was gonna have to work on that too. He wanted her to be accepted, and stay.


Hard-Boiled.

Jun 1st 2019 - 12:19 AM


The gurgle of a walker alerted Daryl to its presence before he saw it. Well, that and the smell. Pushing aside some thick underbrush, Daryl spotted the waving, reaching hand. The woman was lying on her belly, what was left of her legs tangled in dense scrub. The legs were slowly beginning to tear and rip away, decaying strips of flesh scattered about the limbs and weeds. Her head lifted as Daryl came into sight, and glazed eyes honed in on him as the rotted lips peeled back from the lips and gnashing curled past the gritting of teeth.

Daryl stopped just out of hand's reach, pulled out his buck knife and sheathed it into the woman's temple. The head dropped with a squelching plop and silence descended back into the forest. Daryl stepped over the body and pushed on. It shouldn't be much further now.

He wished he could have brought Merle with him, but it was early when he left and he didn't want to wake anyone to ask. Anyone meaning Rick. He had looked in on Rick before he left, found him finally asleep, so let him be. Rick had spent too many hours in a confused, wandering state, so the fact that he was sleeping was a good sign.

Daryl wanted to get in and out of his destination fast, so he had come on foot. He didn't want the noise of a vehicle or motorcycle to raise any walker or human awareness to his location. As he rounded the next curve in the half-grown path, Daryl's foot kicked against something solid on the ground. He crouched and turned over the rectangular piece of wood.

The letters, “Park Ranger” had been painted through and “Pine Pig” streaked over the top of them. Daryl dropped the wood back down. He was in the right place.

Another hundred yards and he spotted the small building, half home, half office, a tall tower behind it that stretched up beyond the canopy of trees. Daryl broke open the padlocked door first and stepped just inside the dimness. He waited. He knew the sound of the door latch breaking would bring forward any dead, but silence remained. Good. Daryl scooted a side table over across the entrance of the front door as an early warning system.

It didn't take much time to search the station. Everything was left nearly in military neatness, even down to the tucked in corners on the bed. Daryl could appreciate the order – it made it easier to search for usable goods. He searched each room and while he found some goods and supplies that could be used later, he was only interested in specific items on this run.

He opened the back door and walked over to the ladder. Sh*t, he hated heights. Hooking his crossbow over his shoulder, Daryl started the climb up the long ladder. There was a drop hatch in the bottom of the floor and Daryl unbolted it, and pushed on into the confines of the lookout.

It was bright and clear up here, all four sides of the lookout had screens that had been left unshuttered. After seeing the orderliness below, Daryl was surprised this place wasn't sealed up too. He walked to the edge and stared out over the countryside. He felt a slight wave of vertigo and gripped one hand to the window ledge. He felt silly, he knew there was no way he could fall, not without some effort at least, but every since the incident in Bouder's Swamp, heights had made him nervous.

Daryl scanned the area in all four directions. He could see a few random walkers shuffling through the woods, made note of their general direction for later, then caught a brief glimpse of the prison tower in the far distance. Other than the few walkers, and some scattered farms and houses, there was nothing else of interest.

No towns, businesses, wait, there was one gas station to the West. Daryl reached over to the small desk and pulled a pair of binoculars from a leather case. Nice ones, he thought, as he examined them closely. He brought them up to his eyes and ringed them into focus. He zeroed in on the gas station.

The front windows were broken, and he could see scattered bits of trash and wrappers caught up in the front display of oil cans. He did see a vending machine. It was possible it held sodas, warm, but cooled off in the well they would make a nice treat for the people at the prison.

Daryl slid the binoculars back into the case and tucked it into his backpack. There wasn't much up here. A small refrigerator, which opened to reveal a stack of water bottles, which Daryl confiscated, then next to it, the small desk.

Daryl pried open the drawers of the desk. Emergency codes, various keys, and an emergency medical kit containing some powerful pain killers, anti-venom, syringes, and tourniquet bands. Daryl stuffed the kit into his backpack too. He felt a wave of disappointment. He didn't find what he was hoping for.

He kicked the spartan office chair away from the desk in frustration. “Dammit,” he muttered. He yanked open the revealed middle drawer of the desk but it only held a collection of pens, pencils, and notepads. He shook his head, but took those too. He turned around and leaned back in a half sit on the desk, folding his arms across his chest.

He felt sure he would find what he sought here, but...nothing. Maybe the Ranger had taken it with him. As Daryl leaned up, his foot slid back and hit something metallic. He spun around and looked beneath the desk. A small metallic trunk was tucked back into the recess of the desk. He leaned down, caught the edge of it and slid it forward. A padlock was fastened tight through the hasp and Daryl started to force it off when he remembered the keys.

He fished they keyring out of his backpack, found the right key and popped open the lock. He carefully moved the objects inside the trunk inspecting all of the contents and smiled. “Found you,” he spoke as if it was a sentient captive he had before him.

Tucking everything back into place, he carefully closed the lid, re-locked the trunk and pulled out a coil of rope from his pack. No way for it, but to tie the trunk up and take it down strapped to his back. It was going to be a long, hot walk back.

It was near dark when Daryl arrived back at the prison. As he passed through the gates, Michonne gave him a hard stare.

“You look like sh*t.”

Daryl slowly rolled the trunk from his back and eased it to the ground. He gestured at it with a finger. “Carry that for half the day, you'd look like sh*t too.”

Michonne started to nudge the trunk with her foot and Daryl's hand shot out, catching her leg just above the knee. “No.”

Dark eyes stared down at his grip. “Remove your hand,” she said slowly.

Daryl met her stare for a few moments, then jerked his hand back. “I was lookin'out for ya.”

Michonne cut her gaze to the trunk and took several steps back. “What's in there?”

“You'll know soon enough. Watch it for me.”

Before Michonne could protest, Daryl strode off to the building and pulled open the door. As he stepped inside, several faces lifted up toward him. He was met with a few nods, a small wave, a grin from Carol, and grunt from Merle above. “Hey little brother.”

Daryl nodded to them and glanced around. “Where's Soph?”

Carol thumbed over toward the cells and gave him a smirk. Daryl ignored the smirk and headed over to Soph's cell. He stopped at the barred door that was shut and glanced past it. He could see a lump in the bed, a fluff of dark hair sticking out from the top of the blanket.

Daryl grabbed the bars and gave the door a rattle.

A gasp from the bed and Soph shot up, knife in hand.

Daryl leaned sideways against the bars and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Did I wake ya?” he asked, innocently. He was admiring the view as Soph was wearing only a pair of lace underwear, and the leather belt which held the knife sheath.

“Oh!” Soph turned a slight shade of blush and lowered her hand which gripped the knife. “You're back!”

“Yep,” Daryl didn't hide the fact that he was blatantly staring at her. “Get dressed, I got something to show ya in the yard.” He slowly leaned up from the door. “Or, come as you are.” He shrugged. “I don't mind.” Daryl sauntered away from the cell and headed back toward the door.

“Scare yourself a mouse, little brother?” Merle called out from the upper level. Daryl stopped and looked up at him. “Did ya eat?”

“Oh yeah,” drawled Merle, as he patted at his stomach with a rattle of chain. “Best prison slop this side of Dixie.”

“Lucky we feed you at all,” quipped Maggie from the bench she sat on next to Carol.

Merle screwed up his face. “I didn't ask for your charity, sweet cheeks.”

Maggie jumped to her feet. “Shut the hell up.”

“You gonna make me, little girl?”

“Merle!” Daryl cut a hard look to Merle. For a moment the two brothers stared at one another and finally Merle spoke, his eyes still on Daryl. “My apologies, missy.”

Maggie grunted and stomped off toward her prison room.

Daryl slightly shook his head, then pushed out into the yard. He didn't know what to do about Merle. He could understand why the others hated him, but he had to find a way to at least gain a neutral acceptance or one or both of them would have to leave again. As he made his way over to Michonne he stopped and fished out a cigarette. He lit it, exhaled, then stopped near Michonne. “Thanks,” he said.

Michonne shrugged. “Whatever's in there, at least it didn't call out.” She wandered off toward the tower.

While Daryl waited for Soph, he tugged out his bandanna and set his crossbow and pack onto the ground. He tugged a water bottle from the pack, dampened the cloth and began to wipe down his face, neck, and upper body.

The water felt good, and nearly cool against his heat soaked skin. He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. He dumped the remainder of the water over his head and slung his head side to side to shake off the excess water.

“Hey!”

Daryl swept the hair out of his eyes with a finger comb and saw Soph flicking some water drops from her face. He shook the water from his hand and took hold of her forearm. “C'mon, I got somethin' to show ya.”

He led her over to the trunk, pulled the key ring from his pocket and held it out to her. “Take a look,” he told her, gesturing to the small trunk.

As Soph took the keys and flipped through them to find the one that looked small enough to match the lock, Daryl reached into his pack and pulled out a flashlight. He snapped it on and shone it on the trunk to illuminate the lock.

“What is it?” Soph asked as she crouched down next to it and wrangled the key and lock.

He crouched down next to her. “Carefully,” he cautioned.

Soph stopped, took a breath, then carefully eased open the lid.

Daryl shone the light over the contents. “Got it from the Ranger station – sometimes, they gotta blow things up. Didn't think about it till ya mentioned cannons.”


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