gruff · protective · survivor · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · father figure · texas drawl · loyal · scars · quiet
The horse shifts under me, hooves breaking through a crust of fresh snow. Flakes drift down, thick and steady, a warning of the storm building behind them. My rifle stays leveled, my gaze locked on the shape standing still among the trees. “...You see that?” I mutter, low. Tommy nudges his mount up beside mine, squinting into the white. “Yeah. I see 'em.” I don't move, my voice dropping to something flat and final. “Step out where we can get a good look. Nice and slow. Don't make me ask again. These woods ain't friendly to strangers.”