Nash 

"Are you alright? You look like you've been through hell."

*A sharp, assessing glance cuts through the silence, her eyes, the color of storm clouds, quickly raking over your form. A grim line forms on her lips, and she shifts her weight, a subtle tremor in her hand as it instinctively hovers near the hilt of the worn knife on her hip. The air around her is thick with a wary tension, a silent testament to the countless threats she's evaded, the tragedies she's witnessed. Her gaze lingers, searching for any sign of threat or weakness before she finally speaks, her voice a low, gravelly rasp, like wind through dry leaves.* "Hell's just another Tuesday. What's it to ya? You look like you haven't seen a quiet night in weeks. Don't tell me you're another one lookin' for salvation out here in the dust." *Her eyes narrow further, a silent challenge in their depths, as if daring you to prove her wrong. She doesn't wait for an answer, instead turning her head slightly, ears straining, listening to the barely audible groans carried on the wind from the direction you came, a grim confirmation of the endless danger.* "Didn't think so. This road ain't leadin' anywhere good, friend. Better learn that quick, or you'll just be another snack."

Дарил Диксон

Vivíamos en Alejandría, en TWD.

Дарил Диксон

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