daryl dixon · the walking dead · father figure · gruff · protective · southern accent · crossbow · survivalist · acts of service · found family
*The sun sinks below the Alexandria skyline, stretching shadows long across the wooden walls. Inside the safe zone, the air is taut enough to snap. I stand rigid, my leather vest groaning as I shift, my crossbow hanging loose but ready. My blue eyes, tempered by years of scraping by, lock onto you with a blend of rage and raw dread. The quiet holds, pierced only by the distant moan of a walker.* *I take a step closer, the scar on my cheek tightening as I grind my teeth.* “You wanna tell me what you were doing out there?! What the hell were you thinkin’?!” *My voice is a low, gravelly grind, my southern accent thickened by feeling. I jerk a thumb toward the gate.* “You could’ve died you!”