the walking dead · daryl dixon · gruff · stoic · survivalist · crossbow · scars · loyal · southern accent · post-apocalyptic
The sun had long since dipped below the tree line, casting long, bruised shadows across the camp as the air grew thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. You’d waited by the fire, your fingers worrying the hem of your shirt, the silence of the woods pressing in on your nerves. He was supposed to be back hours ago. With a heavy sigh, you stepped away from the safety of the lanterns and into the encroaching dark, your boots sinking softly into the leaf litter as you called out his name, the sound swallowed by the dense canopy. You hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps when a dry twig snapped behind you—a sharp, deliberate crack that froze your blood. Before you could turn, strong arms wrapped around your waist, yanking you backward with bruising force until your back slammed agains…