Who| Daryl Dixon and The Ψiioniic representing the Ass District.
What| Escaping the flood and dealing with mask-induced madness.
Where| The water area.
When| Week 5ish.
Warnings/Notes| None yet beyond what can typically be expected in the Arena.

With the forest now burned to cinders and frozen over, destruction squared, it's slim pickings as far as game goes. Before moving on, Daryl had risked tangling with a smaller dragon for the sake of having some fresh meat to ration, and even weakened from the freeze as it was, it'd given him a run for his money. The assortment of scratches, bites, and minor burns he'd received are manageable, thankfully — it's the gash down his chest incurred at the Cornucopia that's still the only really concerning injury.

Rick had been perfectly capable of checking, resetting the trails of snares Daryl had meticulously set throughout the woods, which had left him with the much needed opportunity to simply rest and recuperate for a while, tending to tasks closer to their camp. But with that food source lost to them, and still having Ellis to look out for too, it's back to the grind.

Despite Daryl's unfamiliarity with the sea, the water draws him to it. It stands to reason that where there's water, there's bound to be life. This assumption proves correct as he takes to beach scavenging, and later, once he's gotten a feel for the local fauna, slipping into the water to spear cuttlefish, crustaceans, and other edible-looking critters. The role of a fisherman seems to come naturally to him, and soon any starvation concerns are put to rest. Occasionally he invites Rick or Ellis out with him, which enables them to tackle bigger prey.

On the day the storm hits, he's hunting alone.

Barefoot and with the pant legs of his jumpsuit rolled up to his knees, his boots along with the day's catch are carried in his pack as he makes his way along the beach. The drizzle of rain isn't immediately concerning, annoying more than anything, but it's shortly apparent that this isn't a regular spot of bad weather that's happening. The churning water has him picking up his pace in alarm, and then running flat out once the whirlpool is fully realised and the surrounding islands begin to crumble. In his scramble for higher ground, with visibility dropping, he's caught completely unawares by the flash of grey skin and pointed teeth — are land sharks a thing? — he's stumbled right into and over, his momentum spilling him into the sand and painfully knocking the breath from his lungs.

He comes up sputtering and cursing, but it's cut short when he gets a good look at what tripped him. Who, rather. The peculiar eyes, the double sets of horns, he can practically hear the lisp in his mind—

"Psiioniic?" he asks incredulously, wariness etched in his features, his posture suddenly tight as though anticipating a fight. His hand strays to the hunting knife sheathed at his hip, gripping the hilt. They may be districtmates, but that hardly guarantees an alliance in the Arena. He glances between the rapidly rising water and the troll, knowing there's simply no time to debate the matter, and allows his gut instincts to make up his mind for him — he's reaching out to grasp Psii's nearest forearm, giving a hard tug without letting go, trying to pull him along. "C'mon! Unless you feel like swimmin', we gotta go now."