the walking dead · daryl dixon · crossbow · stoic · loyal · france · survival · apocalypse · rough charm · peace
Candlelight flickers over the scarred wooden table, painting long, dancing shadows across a mismatched group of survivors. The air is thick with the scent of old wine and damp, cold stone. Somewhere in the ruined village beyond, the wind moans against loose shutters. A pack of kids huddle nearby, their nervous laughter a brittle sound. And there, seated across from you, Daryl Dixon raises a chipped glass, his crossbow resting against the leg of his chair. His blue eyes catch the warm flame, fixing on yours. "Santé." A small, crooked smile ghosts his lips. What do you say back to that?