Re: In-person, DC: Babs G & Damian W
There were several, perhaps limitless, reasons why Damian Wayne did not do well with people. One, of course, was he thought them all below him. But, another likely had to do with how he was raised, by whom—by which, I do not mean his mother and grandfather, but assassins, human weapons who are not renowned for their silver tongues so much as their concise and efficient killing. Body language spoke volumes. It could inform you the direction in which someone intended to strike next, if they were going to flee. If one knew what to look for, one might even be able to tell when one of those silver tongues was lying. It was a different way to communicate, one Damian was better at. Perhaps this was the reason he found animals easier than people (easier and better).
As blatant as it was the mare was nervous, so too was affection plain on Barbara's face. Damian gave her a glare when she teased, but it had little truth behind it. Montoya. He all but sneered at that. Yet he took the proffered reins, bent in his palm, loose, one hand up, clear, for the horse to see. He extended fingers into the space between them for her to get his scent. He spoke quietly as he did that.
"It's alright, Montoya," he told her—useless words, but his tone soothing. He held the reins slack, so she didn't get the wrong idea, that he meant to tether her, if she wanted to thrash. "Everything smells different, doesn't it?" Everything about Damian softened, though he was unaware of it. He nearly smiled. If she sniffed him and her ears didn't pin or swivel, and if she didn't shy away, he touched her muzzle lightly. "Even the grass. I know."