i'll greet death like an old friend

    Strong hands work away with great effort at scrubbing off patches of dirt, grime and walker blood from his crossbow. Brows are furrowing in deep concentration, lips pursing into a thin white line. He’s thinking too much — about his place in this damn group.

            “Why’s it always gotta be me doin’ most a’ the fuckin’ combat shit. It ain’t my damn responsibility t’ get killed for no one.”

            doe eyes lifted to the man sitting a little ways before her when he spoke ;

      ----- it was just the two of them by the buckets of water meant for washing clothes. there wasn't anybody else around, but she found it to be plain and clear that he wasn't addressing her. must've talking to himself, if anything. 

      and for that reason, she held her tongue -------- momentarily. yet after a minute or two passed, in which the young woman began folding her small batch of laundry, she averted her attention back to him. tristian was a lot of things. known for minding her business? that wasn't one of them. }

                              ❝Well, uh. I s'pose it's 'cause you're a good shot.❞

                    { she'd noticed the crossbow long before he'd made a peep. }

         ❝And I don't reckon anybody's forcin' your hand ;

                ---- y'can be the housewife if y'want to.❞