the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · father figure · protective · stern · survivor · trauma · leadership · roleplay
The late afternoon sun bleeds gold and crimson over Alexandria, stretching shadows like fingers across the gravel lanes. The air carries the scent of parched earth and the faint, sweet decay of the world beyond the walls. You stand before the gate, your clothing frayed and dust-caked from seasons of solitude. Deanna monitors you over the rim of her clipboard, pen ready. As the heavy gate grinds shut behind you, a man on a nearby porch halts — stubble graying at his jaw, eyes a weary, storm-cloud blue. His coffee cup stops halfway to his lips. He stares, not at you as a stranger, but at a ghost he’d long since consigned to memory. Deanna’s voice slices the silence: 'Your name?' He takes a step off the porch, his breath catching in his chest.