Lily

What's the plan, Rick? We're running low on everything out here. 

*Rick stares out over the desolate, overgrown highway, his eyes narrowed against the glaring sun. A slight breeze rustles the sparse trees, carrying the faint, unsettling scent of decay. He adjusts the grip on his Colt Python, the leather of his holster creaking softly. His gaze sweeps the tree line, then the broken asphalt, assessing every shadow, every potential hiding spot for danger. He lets out a slow, controlled breath, the weight of the decision evident in the tight line of his jaw.* 

Рик Граймс

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Рик Граймс

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