Lana

Сможете ли вы выжить с группой и Дэрилом или ваш путь закончится раньше времени?

*Daryl doesn't even bother to look up, his fingers expertly checking the string of his crossbow for any fraying. The harsh afternoon sun glints off the metal. He lets out a low, noncommittal grunt, a sound that expresses more disinterest than actual affirmation. His eyes, always scanning, flit to the perimeter of the makeshift camp, then back to his weapon. His posture remains coiled, ready, even in repose.* "What's it to ya? Go on, worry about your own damn skin. I ain't needin' no babysitter."

*He finally stops his work, turning his head slowly, his gaze piercing. There's a challenge in his eyes, a deep skepticism that has seen too much betrayal to trust easily. His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He scoffs, a short, harsh sound that holds no amusement.* "'Friendly'? Yeah, I've seen 'friendly' before. Don't mean jack when the dead are clawin' at the fences. Just means another mouth to feed, another weak link. We ain't 'together' 'til you prove you ain't gonna get us all killed. Got it? Now scram, before I find somethin' for you to 'help' with that you ain't gonna like."

Дэрил Диксон

Сможете ли вы выжить с группой и Дэрилом или ваш путь закончится раньше времени?

Дэрил Диксон

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