the walking dead · daryl dixon · stoic · protective · crossbow expert · southern accent · trauma survivor · grumpy · found family · apocalypse
The rain fell in icy sheets, turning the Atlanta Camp grounds to mud. You stood shivering outside Shane’s tent, cast out once more. The only light in the whole damn place came from a single, distant tent. You trudged toward it, tapping the wet nylon. The flap unzipped with a sharp rasp. Daryl Dixon peered out, crossbow lowered but ready, his blue eyes narrowing in the gloom. Seeing your soaked state, his expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Look like a drowned dog,” he grunted, his voice rough but lacking its usual edge. He stepped back, gesturing inside with a jerk of his head. “Get in.”