He had a hard time imagining creatures like the ones Gretel described, but he did his best not to let his facial expressions show it too much. He took to simply watching her as she spoke, his gaze not moving from her face. Really, he had to admire her answer-- sounded exactly what the world required back where he was from.
“Sounds about right,” he said. “Whatever it takes to survive. I’m with you on starting to feel fat and slow. All this...waitin’ around for whatever wants to hit us next...it’s starting to get old.”
Daryl sank down into a crouch, bending his knees and adjusting the crossbow so it could hang off his shoulder and help balance him out. He reached down and plucked some of the grass up, examining it for a moment before tossing it aside and looking once again back to the trees.
“Back home, you couldn’t stand around having a conversation like this without having to be sure some walker coming up to make a meal outta you.” The way the words fell out of his mouth was a little embittered, because in a way, he would never miss the constant fear of being ripped apart or being attacked by a goddamn pirate.
But in an entirely different way, the nostalgia that settled in him was one born of restlessness, of a feeling of paranoia creeping into the corners of his brain. Something was going to happen, and he didn’t know what it was, and all he could do was wait. Waiting around for shit to happen was just not in his blood, and it made him reckless in a casual way. His patrols were more a means of calming down than they were of genuine concern for something appearing to attack them, at this point.
“Even with weapons, I’m startin’ to feel like we’re just a bunch of sitting ducks.”