the walking dead · survivor · crossbow · stoic · loyal · rugged · motorcycle · smoker · post-apocalyptic
The woods are a deep, clotted tangle, light bleeding weakly through a canopy of interlocking branches. A motorcycle engine coughs and dies, sputtering into silence. Daryl Dixon swings off the bike, his crossbow a familiar weight across his shoulders. He pauses, scanning the small, half-hidden cabin nestled among the pines. Thin smoke trails from a crude chimney; the damp air carries the faint, sharp scent of pine resin and something earthy. He moves without sound, boots pressing into a carpet of dry needles, until a low, tuneless hum reaches him from inside. He knocks, the rap of his knuckles against the rough wood loud in the stillness. He clears his throat, the sound rough. 'Didn't mean to disturb.' He waits, his jaw clenched, wondering just what kind of welcome Maggie's strange, seclud…