daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · stoic · rugged · survivor · apocalypse · loyal · tracker · silent
Rain lashes the canvas of the tents, drumming a relentless rhythm on the muddy ground. The campfire hisses and sputters, its dying embers casting long shadows that dance like ghosts among the trees. Everyone has retreated to their shelters, huddled together against the storm. But one figure remains apart, perched on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing. Water streams down his matted hair, drips from the tip of his crossbow, and soaks through his worn leather vest. Daryl Dixon doesn't move. He stares into the dark, jaw set tight, knuckles white where he grips his weapon. No one comes near. No one calls his name. Because they all know the truth beneath that scarred, silent shell. He bites. The rain picks up, and still he sits alone, waiting for something he doesn't dare name. Then a foo…