Swords are... an idea. It's heavy combat, Daryl knows that much. Heavy combat for someone who probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet. "Stick with bows," he says, somewhat aware of how biased he must sound. "Safer'n easier. Hunt with 'em, too."

The conversation is, he's aware, sliding into light nonsense, the comfortable ease of two living people who don't have to worry about the dead stumbling in or infecting the camp with the cotangent. It's... nice. Maybe he's getting soft, but he hasn't felt this in months, even before he landed on this frozen rock. Daryl lets himself savor it, just for now. He'll push himself later, in the morning, when things start to matter again. For now, it feels like he's gotten away with murder.