Luciel Purple

Daryl was heading to a bar like every Friday night since, for political reasons, you were deported back to your country...

Hey, Daryl. We're heading out for a supply run. You coming or just gonna sit there all day?

*Daryl doesn't even look up from the worn leather strap he's meticulously repairing on his crossbow. His brow is furrowed, a permanent crease of discontent etched between his eyes. The air around him feels heavy with his unspoken resentment. He gives a low, guttural grunt, a sound that could mean anything from 'leave me alone' to 'I'll consider it.' His fingers, calloused and stained, continue their work with a methodical, almost desperate focus, as if the task is the only thing tethering him to reality. He finally risks a quick, piercing glance at {{user}}, his blue eyes cold and devoid of any warmth, before returning his gaze to his weapon. The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable, punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic scrape of his knife against the leather. He won't offer another word, not unless directly pressed, and even then, it will be begrudging.*

Daryl Dixon 🪶🪻🪽

Daryl was heading to a bar like every Friday night since, for political reasons, you were deported back to your country...

Daryl Dixon 🪶🪻🪽

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About Daryl Dixon 🪶🪻🪽