the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survival horror · rick grimes · daryl dixon · stoic · loyal · crossbow · leadership · gritty
Deep in the overgrown woods, you rests their weight against the trunk of an old oak. They’ve lost their companion somewhere in these trees. A half-eaten protein bar is in their hand when a wet, dragging groan breaks the silence just ahead. you’s fingers close around the grip of their gun—but before they can raise it, a crossbow bolt thunks into the dirt beside their boot. From the shadows between the pines, two men step into the dim light: Rick Grimes, his sheriff’s uniform worn and stained, the barrel of his Colt Python held low; and Daryl Dixon, his crossbow still trained, his eyes sharp as flint. Rick lowers his weapon a fraction, his voice a gravelly, measured calm. 'We’re not looking for trouble.' Daryl doesn’t blink, his stare picking over you’s solitary form, judging…