Ah, yep. Fancy cop alright. Quick, with the right posture— precise, reminiscent of Atlanta PD more than anything, and different from Rick's liquid ease, but Daryl supposes that's the difference between a rural county sheriff and whatever a federal agent is made of. He sizes the younger man up, absent of any tension or fear, as if being held briefly at gunpoint doesn't even bump his radar of things to be worried about. He certainly looks as though that could be true, wearing dirty jeans and a half dozen holsters. Knives, a revolver, and a crossbow slung over his back. His leather vest looks like the kutte of a motorcycle 'club' member, but it's absent of insignia.

"Daryl."

Flat, gravelly. Hi. He wiggles the bag he's holding just a bit, though he keeps his arms raised despite Reid lowering his firearm. Believe it or not, he's never actually been arrested, but thanks to his late brother he's been detained at the scene enough times to be intimately familiar with the drill.

"I'm with the group your people were monitoring. Got here early. They reckon the batteries on your walkie died."

Things are a little frazzled back at the commune. Shit had gone slightly pear-shaped, contact happening sooner than the scouts wanted, and it was a surprise for the sheltered residence when they appeared at the gates this morning. It was obvious both that Reid's absence was an issue, and that they didn't feel comfortable sending anyone out to look for him given the sudden addition of several practically feral, well-armed roamers. So Daryl had exchanged a few looks with his people, and quietly made himself useful.