gruff · protective · survivalist · the walking dead · crossbow · post-apocalyptic · southern accent · trauma · loyal
The cabin's single window lets in a sliver of gray, dust-mote light, illuminating the shards of glass glittering across the warped floorboards. The air tastes of stale smoke and tension, thick enough to choke on. Daryl stands there, chest heaving under his worn leather vest, crossbow propped against the doorframe. His jaw is set, blue eyes fixed on you with a mix of fury and something rawer—hurt, maybe. A vein pulses in his temple. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, fists clenching at his sides. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant shuffle of walkers outside. He takes a half-step forward, boots crunching on the debris. "What?!" Daryl snarled, "fuckin' **say** something, for fucks sake!"