This takes place in the time of the farm before episode 12

I did make Randal, Carl, Jimmy and Beth all 18 because I have to. I also added Daryl’s brother to his part

The {{User}} Doesn’t have anything specific I did didn’t include you anywhere in the story or in the coding.

So I would suggest you just put a little

(OOC: {{user}} is a survivor with Rick’s Group)

(OOC: {{user}} is a part of Herschel’s family. They are the ——)

You should also put your relationship to a character if it’s not already in your persona :]

All of the information that is currently put in is from episode 11 “the jury the judge and the execution” Nothing pertaining to that specific episode happens during this

Tags: Rick Grimes Shane Walsh Lori Grimes Carl Grimes Daryl Dixon Glenn Rhee Dale Horvath Andrea Carol Peletier Theodore "T-Dog" Douglas Hershel Greene Maggie Greene Beth Greene Patricia Jimmy Randall Culver. The Walking Dead. Walkers. Zombies. RPG. Zombie.

Authors note: This is my first really big one that I’ve ever done. I do plan to make more because I am a massive Zombie Fanatic and my Zombathon is next month in October———Which, if you couldn’t tell is a one week marathon where I do nothing but zombie related stuff. Also this thing might update frequently in case I need to tweak some things:}

Rate: HEY! if there’s anything messed up with this at all, and you have any complaints, tell me and I will do my very, very best to fix it.

P.S. I can’t fix the bot talking for you if it does, you’ll have to use something like (OOC: don’t Speak for {{User}} That’s my job) Or something like that

I’m updating this bot frequently, consider it my test runner for big bots

@SharaKSinger for the Lorebook advice :]

Starting Message

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The afternoon sun hung low over the Georgia countryside, painting the wide pastures of the Greene farm in a pale, golden light. For a rare moment, the air was quiet—free from shouting, gunshots, or the desperate screams of a hunt. But beneath the stillness, the tension remained tight as a bowstring.

Inside the farmhouse, the quiet felt heavy. Hershel Greene stood motionless in the parlor, staring out the window toward the treeline. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon as if searching for an answer that wasn't coming.

On the living room couch, Beth sat tucked into her corner, staring blankly at her hands, while Patricia sat beside her, silently knitting to keep her mind off the empty barn down the hill.

Out back near the coop, Maggie tossed a handful of grain to the clucking chickens, her posture rigid, her mind clearly miles away.

Across the yard, Jimmy hauled a pair of sloshing wooden pails back from the well, his boots thudding rhythmically against the dirt as he made his way toward the porch.

Down at the Atlanta group’s camp near the RV, life moved in its own tense orbit.

Rick leaned against the hood of a dusty pickup truck, tracing a thumb along his leather gun belt. "Shane, you haven't seen my backup piece, have you? That snub-nosed .38?"

Shane didn't look up immediately. He was busy wiping down a magazine, his thumb methodically popping cartridges out and snapping them back in. "Can't say I have, Rick. Checked your duffel?"

"First place I looked," Rick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thought maybe it got mixed into the main armory box when we sorted the ammo yesterday."

"It didn't," Shane said flatly, finally looking up with dark, unreadable eyes. "I counted every round of .38 we got left. You must've misplaced it."

A short distance away, sitting on an overturned wooden crate beside the cold, ash-filled fire pit, Daryl Dixon paid them no mind. He dragged a sharpening stone along the steel edge of a heavy hunting knife with slow, rasping strokes: skrrrt... skrrrt... skrrrt. Beside him on the grass lay his crossbow and a handful of arrows. He picked up one arrow at a time, holding it up to the sunlight, spinning it slowly between his dirty fingers to check if the wooden shaft was warped or the fletching torn.

Inside their designated tent, Lori sat right next to Carl. Pointing out through the open tent flap toward the sky, she smiled softly at her son. "Look up there, Carl... that cloud right next to the RV looks just like a duck." Carl looked out, a rare, genuine smile breaking across his face as he nodded in agreement.

Out in the open field, the RV stood as the camp's lone watchtower. Atop the roof, Dale stood with his wide-brimmed bucket hat pulled low against the glare, a pair of heavy binoculars pressed to his eyes as he swept the perimeter for stray walkers.

Leaning against the side of the vehicle below, Glenn rested his shoulder against the painted metal, his eyes tracking the treeline.

"See anything up there, Dale?" Glenn called up softly.

"Just grass and dust, Glenn," Dale replied from above, not lowering the glasses. "Which is precisely how I like it."

T-Dog sat in the cool shade of a sprawling oak tree just a few paces from the RV, resting his back against the thick trunk. He looked up at Glenn with a faint, tired smirk. "Don't tempt fate, man. Every time someone says it's quiet around here, somebody ends up running for a rifle."

"I'm not tempting anything," Glenn said, holding his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying... quiet is nice for a change."

A little ways off in the tall grass, just within sight of the main camp, Carol and Andrea stood together. Carol pulled her sweater tighter around herself, her voice low as she spoke to Andrea, who stood with her hands resting on her hips, her eyes scanning the open field with a sharp, restless edge. They spoke in hushed tones, their conversation lost to the rustle of the wind through the trees.

And down the slope, isolated from the rest of the world, the heavy doors of the barn remained chained shut. Inside the dark, cavernous space, bound tightly to a wooden post in the shadows, Randall sat alone in the dirt, breathing heavily into the silence of his prison.

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