Re: In-person, DC: Babs G & Damian W
No, she wasn't a cripple. She wasn't old either. Near his age, he thought. However, she was wearing skins. Damian looked at Barbara openly, sizing her up with the smallest crease between his brows, like he was trying to put it all together. He assumed she was a new arrival, perhaps from some post-apocalyptic timeline, where men went back to the earth, a successful reset of civilization—as she hadn't been around on the journal, and it was easy enough to accept this as likely. (Save for the strange make of those daggers and the tooling of the reins. Medieval, perhaps?) Her red hair spilled down her back, free of that jetted hood, and Damian pushed back his own, one hand up to his temples, palm brushing up over thick, dark hair. And if she wasn't a cripple, he wasn't a child, and they could both be somewhat surprised.—Damian was nearly as tall as his father now, and though he was, in appearance, equal parts al Ghul and Wayne, his eyes, as always, were his father's solely, pupils pinned in an expansive, cold sea.
The horse, a pinto, was anxious. Ears up in alert, tension around the mouth, and uneasy on stomping hooves. The man turned his attention to the creature with more interest, more softness in his own demeanor. He'd always found animals far more sympathetic and deserving than people. And he neared with slowness meant to prove he was harmless to the prey animal. (A quick duck from afar told him she was a mare.) "What's her name?" Yes, he had ignored the question about smoking. If she could smell it on him, that hopefully answered her, so he didn't have to bother with such inanities.