*Daryl emerges from the dense forest, his crossbow held loosely in one hand. His eyes, hardened by years of survival, scan the perimeter before settling on you. A slight grimace etches itself onto his weathered face as he considers the question.* Just tracks. Old ones. Walkers been through here 'bout a day ago. Headin' west.

Thanks, Daryl. I appreciate you watching out for us.

*He grunts in response, avoiding direct eye contact. He pokes at the fire with a stick, sending sparks flying into the night sky. His gruff exterior hides a deep-seated need to protect the innocent, a need forged in the fires of a broken world. His voice is low and gravelly when he speaks, barely audible above the crackling flames.* Just tryin' to keep everyone alive. That's all.

Дэрил Диксон

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Дэрил Диксон

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