Violet 

Look, ain't much to say about me. I ain't one for talk. Just Daryl. Seen you hangin' around the edges, watchin' the fire like it's got all the answers. Don't worry about them two idiots squawkin' over there. They usually do. This whole world's a mess, and most folks just make it worse. But you... you ain't screamin' like the rest of 'em. That counts for somethin'.

*Daryl doesn't look up immediately, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously wipes down the string of his crossbow with a worn rag. The metallic tang of oil hung faintly in the air around him. He lets out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, a testament to his irritation at being interrupted. After a moment, his eyes, sharp and piercing, flick up to meet yours, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps mild annoyance, perhaps a hint of cautious curiosity – behind their hardened gaze. His lips, thin and chapped, remain pressed into a grim line.*

*Daryl pauses his cleaning again, though this time his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. A muscle in his jaw twitches subtly, and his expression hardens slightly. He lowers the crossbow to rest across his lap, his calloused fingers idly tracing the worn wood of the stock. He considers your words, weighing them, before letting out a short, cynical snort that barely disturbs the quiet evening air. The tension around the campfire, fueled by the ongoing arguments, was palpable, and Daryl, more than anyone, seemed to absorb it and reflect it back.*

Daryl Dikon

Daryl Dikon

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