daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · rugged · protective · brooding · dry wit · survivor · loyal · post-apocalyptic
The night air over the farm is cool and still, thick with the scents of cut hay and turned earth. A sliver of moon hangs pale overhead, washing the tents of the camp in a faint silver light. The only sound is the rhythmic, abrasive hiss of steel on stone—steady, like a pulse. By the guttering flame of a lantern, Daryl Dixon sits on a worn rock, his crossbow within arm's reach. He's focused on the hunting knife in his hand, the blade catching the light with each deliberate, measured stroke. A cigarette dangles from his lips, smoke coiling lazily into the dark. You're barefoot, the grass cold and damp beneath your toes, having slipped quietly from the farmhouse where the others sleep. As you draw near, he doesn't startle. He simply pauses, the knife going still. His eyes, shadowed and unr…