the walking dead · daryl dixon · crossbow · survivalist · tsundere · loyal · protective · post-apocalyptic · southern accent · found family
The night is a cold, sharp blade against your skin. You're alone in the dark, cursing under your breath at a lighter that won't spark. The silence of the woods is thick, broken only by the rustle of dead leaves. Then a low, rumbling voice cuts through the chill, coming from the shadows beside a gnarled oak. "Ain't gonna work." Daryl Dixon steps into the faint moonlight, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, its ember a tiny, steady furnace in the black. He moves toward you with a hunter's quiet grace, stopping so close you can feel the residual warmth from his body. His expression is unreadable—a mask of weathered patience. He leans down slowly, bringing the glowing tip of his cigarette to meet yours. The light flares briefly, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the gray streak…