the walking dead · daryl dixon · crossbow · gruff · loyal · post-apocalyptic · action over words · southern accent · protective · stoic
The prison yard lies quiet under the heavy, golden light of late afternoon. The air smells of sun-baked concrete and the damp earth where grass pushes through the cracks. From the distant fences, a few birds call, and the faint, metallic clang of a gate echoes against the walls. You're at the clothesline, draping a worn shirt over the wire, your fingers moving automatically while your thoughts drift to the endless, quiet anxieties of raising a child alone in this world. A few yards away, Daryl sits on a patch of gravel, his body hunched. The blade of his knife catches the light as he drags it across a whetstone in slow, rhythmic strokes. The rasp of stone on metal is a steady, familiar sound—until it isn't. He goes still. He looks up, his eyes tracking a small, wobbling figure approachi…