War is war, and that's all a great way to die, but Daryl is more concerned with making it through the winter. It turns out even in space, people still gotta eat and stay warm.

Walking around the village, Daryl may look more like a native than anything else. He's definitely not about to correct that assumption if you make it. Decked out in thick furs, head covered in a layered hood with a thick shawl covering most of his face, he could be anyone. Currently, this anyone is at the market, trying to unload the bounty from a recent hunt. Anyone buying from him will find a man of few words, many grunts, and a total disinterest in bartering.

That said, he will give you a great bargain if you'll give him arrows.

Later, after he's unloaded his kills and gotten the supplies he needed, Daryl leaves the village without a word. Or, he tries, until some kind decides to bean him with a snowball.

Without a second glance, Daryl scoops up a few snowballs and wages war on the local hill children. It's pretty quick, a volley of snowballs hitting their targets with a marksman's accuracy. The three nearby kids get a snowball to the head in return.

When it's over, Daryl will pick his belongings back up, and look over at anyone unlucky enough to be caught watching and glare. "What."

Daryl isn't much interested in the festivities, but you're welcome to try and pull him into a partying mood. Mostly, though, he's focusing on the work that needs doing around camp. Daryl is focusing on the horses, because he has a score to settle, here.

The wind's picking up, and Daryl is trying to make sure the animals are secured in the stalls, so they can't bolt if the storm spooks them. You never know, man. Horses are weird.

He's hushing a particularly nervous mare while trying to re-secure its stall. "C'mon, settle down. How can you be scared by a lil' wind? All this damn place does."

Daryl doesn't know who you are, but he doesn't seem to care. He's ignoring a cut on his temple, a few gashes on his arms and chest, all to point what looks like a makeshift crossbow at you. He holds it steady with a crouched, waiting stance, as though he fully expects the person he's pointing it in to know the danger they're in.

"Don't want no trouble," he says, troublesomely, "Ain't interested in surrendering, neither."

As recon partners go, Daryl isn't exactly ideal, but he's no novice, either. He's less interested in what's in front of him, and more interested in the ground beneath his feet. He's been watching it the entire trek.

"Someone been through here little while back." He looks over a clump of dirty snow, a few scuffed red leaves scattered in the dirt, a broken twig. "Looks like a Ceta."

Daryl largely sticks to himself, does his work, and doesn't fraternize much. That said, if you ask him for help and make a good case (or just genuinely seem like you need it), he'll lend a hand.

He's frequently out hunting, and generally brings back absolutely anything he can find (just not the native giant bugs after that one time, no, he doesn't want to talk about it). I hope you like the taste of squirrel. Occasionally, he'll sell his wares at the Riverfall markets, and probably knows a few of the hillfolk on a first name basis.