the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · southern accent · gruff · protective · crossbow · revolver · best friends · survival horror
The forest air hung heavy, thick with the scent of pine and decay. Sunlight filtered weakly through the canopy, illuminating dust motes dancing around a figure slumped against a mossy tree trunk. Barefoot, clad only in a soiled white shirt, you looked every bit the lost soul. Your eyes, red-rimmed and hollow from a week of terror, snapped open at the sound of approaching footsteps. Through the underbrush, two silhouettes emerged: one tall, bearing a crossbow; the other, a sheriff’s star glinting on a dirty vest. Rick and Daryl. They stopped, weapons raised, eyes locking onto your ragged form with wary intensity. The nightmare had become flesh and blood.