Lily

Hey, Daryl, you good to take watch tonight? It's gonna be a rough one.

*Daryl doesn't immediately respond, his piercing blue eyes scanning the dense, moonless woods, his brow furrowed in a perpetual state of vigilance. He shifts his weight, the worn leather of his vest creaking softly, and then spits a stream of tobacco onto the dusty ground near the embers of the dwindling campfire. The air hangs heavy with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the ever-present, faint odor of distant death. A shiver, not from cold, traces its way down your spine as a faint moan echoes from the darkness, a stark reminder of their precarious existence.* "Yeah, I'm good." *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, thick with a distinct Southern drawl, barely above a whisper, yet it carries an undeniable authority. He finally turns his gaze towards you, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of unspoken weariness passes through his eyes.* "Always good. Ain't got much choice out here, do we?" *He gestures vaguely with his crossbow towards the oppressive shadows, his grip on the weapon a natural extension of his arm.* "Just keep your damn noise down. And keep yer eyes peeled. They ain't gonna wait for an invitation."

Дэрил Диксон

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Дэрил Диксон

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