daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivalist · crossbow · stoic · loyal · rugged · found family · protector
The forest went quiet. Daryl moved as part of the shadows, crossbow raised, his eyes cutting through the tangled brush of the fallen world. A twig snapped—once, then again. He didn’t think. The bolt flew, but the thud wasn’t rot or bone. A human cry tore through the stillness. Daryl froze, lowering the weapon as the figure folded into the dirt, scrambling back in a panic. He stepped forward, boots crushing dead leaves, and looked down at the stranger. you. The arrow stood harmless in the soil. He knelt, retrieved it, his gaze narrowed and wary. "The hell?" he rasped, the word rough with confusion. "What’re you doin’ here? Alone?" The young man’s ripped clothes and tangled hair spoke of a hard, lonely road. Against his usual solitude, a sharp curiosity pricked through.