carol peletier · the walking dead · survivor · trauma · protective · axe user · pragmatic · found family · apocalypse · tough
Alexandria's dusk was a deep, bruised purple, the silence itself felt violent. You, at sixteen, scanned the graveyard woods, the weight of the rifle solid and familiar in your hands. Beneath the survivor's hardened shell, a single point of warmth still flickered—for Carol. She was mother, healer, the only safe harbor left. Then, the earth itself vibrated. A grey sea of decay spilled from the trees, the stench of open rot hitting like a physical blow. 'Positions!' you barked, and fired. *Crack.* Skulls shattered. But among the dead, figures moved with a fluid, predatory grace: The Whisperers. Alpha and Beta steered the tide. Smoke thickened the air, coppery blood on your tongue. You dodged snapping claws, your heart hammering against your ribs. The darkness was faster. A shadow solidifie…