Daine looked up from the campfire, her thoughts interrupted by the sight of an uninvited visitor. Donal stood there, as casual as if he'd been expected, utterly unfazed by the impropriety of barging in on the Templar Ascendant.
If he felt even a flicker of shame about inflicting his presence on her unannounced, he hid it with remarkable skill, his expression radiating nothing but his usual irreverence.
Given the many evolutions his Class had undergone since Daine first knew him, it was almost surprising how little Donal’s appearance had changed.
As Taelsin’s Secretary, he’d embodied a bookish yet irascible energy that suited his role as majordomo to a bustling City. One could easily picture him meticulously drafting meeting minutes with a sense of personal pride, or savouring the quiet thrill of rejecting an impromptu item from a pre-circulated agenda.
There had always been a sense that, beneath his somewhat unassuming exterior, Donal wielded a bureaucratic precision sharp enough to make even the most tenacious council members think twice.
During the siege of Swinford, Donal had made the calculation that his administrative Class was no longer suited to the realities of their situation. With what Daine could only describe as an alarmingly vague explanation of the process, he’d somehow transitioned into a more martial Class—that of a Dark Warlord.
The shift had seemed almost absurd at first, trading in his ink-stained robes and ledger for the shadowy mantle of a battlefield commander. Yet, inexplicably, Donal had taken to it with the same exacting intensity he once applied to city schedules and council minutiae.
This transformation, naturally, had granted Donal access to a far more formidable set of Skills with which to defend his City and, in no small part, contributed to the aura of frustration that continued to cling to General Souit.
Donal’s new Class—with its embrace of chaotic, unpredictable tactics—had been the ideal counter to the Great General's rigid strategies. Many of the reversals Souit suffered during that confrontation owed as much, if not more, to Donal’s cunning as they did to Daine’s raw power and combat prowess.
His unorthodox approach had turned the battlefield into a place where meticulous planning unravelled, and Souit's carefully laid strategies had crumbled in the face of Donal’s relentless adaptability.
Interestingly, in his movement between Secretary to Dark Warlord, Donal had retained much of the same bearing. If his fashion sense had moved from the stuffy to the outlandish, and if there had been a certain sallowing of his skin, then that was to be expected.
However, by its very nature – and with its clear link to the influence of the Dark God - Donal’s movement into this Class had strained his relationship with Daine. Some of the choices that the man had made in the defence of Swinford were, at best, morally questionable. For example, the temporary resurrection of the fallen of the King’s Army to rise in the City’s defence was still a point of great contention between the leadership of the refugee train. Therefore, it was with relief that the news was received that Donal had changed his Class once more, this time electing to become a Frontiersman.
There was, though, something rather incongruous in a thin, elderly man adopting a Class more usually chosen by hearty pioneers. While there was no doubt the Skills to which he now had access had been crucial to them getting this far on their journey -
Daine watched as Donal settled beside her at the solitary fire, caught between awe and bewilderment. He was a sight that, at first glance, defied easy description: an elderly man with a slight stoop, his thinning white hair catching the firelight, yet moving with a vitality and finesse that seemed entirely out of place for his apparent age. His face—etched with deep lines and weathered creases from countless lives and battles—was a testament to years hard-lived. Sharp, intelligent eyes sparkled behind his round spectacles, glinting with a keenness that belied his years.
Though his hands were liver-spotted and gnarled, they moved with the Dexterity and Strength of a seasoned tracker, effortlessly handling tools and weapons alike. Daine had, more than once, found herself wondering what his stat sheet might look like. Yet, whenever she’d inquired to the Goddess about it, her patron had responded with amused silence—as she often did when Donal was the subject.
Donal's attire added much to the incongruity of his appearance. He wore rugged, practical clothing suited for a life in the wild—sturdy boots, a thick leather vest, various furred accoutrements and trousers reinforced at the knees. Yet these clothes hung far too loosely on his lean, stick-like frame as if their wearer had borrowed them from his giant of a grandson. Indeed, when first seeing him, Daine had assumed such clothing was an affectation and that Donal would soon tire of tripping over the too-large costume, but – so far – it was as if he didn’t notice the disparity.
Throughout their journey, Donal moved with uncanny ease—setting traps with a deftness that made it look instinctive, bringing down beasts three times his size, and weaving through the rugged terrain as nimbly as a jackrabbit.
The contrast between his frail appearance and his vigorous actions was striking, almost unsettling, as though he’d been gifted a second youth without the corresponding renewal of flesh and bone. It was as if his body were fighting against its own limits to keep pace with the demands of his new role.
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Daine watched him with a mixture of apprehension and envy.
Part of her feared for him, wondering how long this aged frame could endure under such strain, but another part couldn’t help but feel a pang of admiration for his resilience.
Although she had recently undergone her own Class change, that had been an evolution rather than a complete transformation. She was delighted with the results – as a Templar Ascendant, she was more robust, faster and more agile than she had ever been as a Knight of the Road – but she could not help but feel she was, disappointingly, more of the same.
Yes, her new Skills and increased attributes had probably made her one of the most powerful and resilient melee fighters in the Kingdom. Still, she would be lying if she did not feel a touch of irritation that this man so quickly swapped his Skillset for another entirely different existence.
Looking at him now, Daine’s feelings wove together in a complex tapestry of admiration, concern, and a touch of disbelief. She marvelled at Donal's transformation—a man who had embraced a new Class with all its powerful attributes and Skills, yet whose body remained steadfastly as it had been when she first encountered him, standing watch on the Road outside Keep Trellec. Here he sat, seemingly timeless, his aging form carrying the weight of youth’s vigour, like a well-worn cloak hiding unexpected steel beneath. There was something haunting in the way he balanced wisdom and vitality in a frame that defied both, a paradox of age and strength that left Daine quietly in awe.
It was all very disconcerting.
“I take no joy in slaughter, sir,” she said, answering his question. “I would hope you knew me well enough by now to recognise that.”
Donal, entirely unbothered by her frosty tone, replied with a knowing smirk. “But you didn’t mind working off some of that simmering frustration, did you?” He held up his latest prize—a skinned rabbit, which had seemingly materialised from thin air.
“Rabbit?” he asked, as casually as if offering her a choice spot by the fire.Daine, somewhat taken aback, shook her head.
“No, thank you. I have already eaten.”
“Do you mind?” Donal gestured to her fire, and Daine merely shrugged. Taking that as permission, he drove a spit through the middle of the rabbit and propped it above the flame. “Haven’t had a bite all day.”
They sat in silence, watching the firelight dance on the rabbit as it began to brown, the rich scent of cooking meat filling the air. Daine’s mouth watered, though she kept her expression carefully neutral. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d declined the offer—Pride is ever a challenge for you, her Goddess whispered, half-amused in her mind. She resolved to accept if he offered again once it was properly roasted, feeling the tension between pride and hunger gnawing at her.
As if aware of her thoughts, Donal removed the rabbit and began eating it with every sign of immense relish, yet never offering her a bite. When he was just over halfway through, and Daine’s stomach had rumbled for the third time, he glanced up. “So what do you think?”
“About what?” Daine’s level of frustration with this strange man was reaching new levels.
“We’ll be in the Bloodspires proper by tomorrow,” Donal said as he turned the spit. “I’ve scouted as far ahead as I’m willing to go alone, and let me tell you—it’ll be no Sun Day stroll. Most of the path is two abreast at best, single file for the rough stretches. One good shake, one careless step, and I wouldn’t want to be beneath the loose rocks that come tumbling down. We’re going to lose people.”
Daine nodded but kept her face flat. “We’ll lose people if we stay where we are.”
Donal nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm, popping the last morsel of rabbit into his mouth and making a grand show of licking his fingers, every gesture radiating undue satisfaction. Daine scowled at him, her patience fraying.
“Oh, absolutely, my lady,” he replied with a sly grin. “But I can't help but think that not everyone shares our... pragmatic view on impending doom. It certainly doesn't hurt that you and I could probably walk away from a little tumble off those cliffs.” He gestured toward the precipices looming in the distance. “The others?” He swept an arm to encompass the weary figures scattered around the camp. “Well, let's just say their landings might lack our finesse. I suspect things are about to get rather... untidy.”
“It has been, in your words ‘, messy’ from the moment Gallant Stonehand appeared at the walls of Swinford, Sir.”
Donal nodded, grease dripping down his beard. “That is has.”
They returned to silence. Daine knew the Frontiersman had joined her because he had a plan he wished to unveil. Presumably, one that his sworn lord, Taelsin, had already forbidden him to contemplate.
She was getting used to the way this wiley old man worked. He was seeking to recruit her for some scheme.
Well, if he thought his patience could outstrip that of the Darkhelm, he had significantly missed his mark this evening.
The sun had just begun to crest over the mountains when Donal finally broke the silence.
In the span of their less-than-companionable quiet, he had somehow managed to devour two more rabbits and the hind leg of a deer—each morsel consumed with obvious enjoyment and not a single offer made to Daine. She watched him with a mixture of irritation and grudging respect as he finished licking his fingers clean.
“So,” he said, glancing at her with an infuriatingly casual air. “I have a plan.”
“You have a plan,” Daine repeated dully. She was surprised he could hear her over the rumbling of her stomach.
“Quite apart from the rigours of travelling the Bloodspires, I worry that we will be beset again and again by the mountain tribes.”
Daine nodded but added no further thoughts. To be truthful, she shared this concern. It was one thing to defeat attackers in a reasonably secure camp. It was quite another on a treacherous cliffside. Even the modest harrying of the bandits earlier in the journey had taken a considerable toll on the number of refugees.
She had been sat, thinking about the dangers ahead, when Donal had joined her. Daine suspected there was little coincidence in this.
“It occurs to me that it was strange the men of the mountains attacked us without warning. I would not have expected them to challenge armed men in such a way.”
“I’ve had the same thought,” Daine replied, her tone measured. She had travelled the King’s Road through the West for thirty years and could count on one hand the number of encounters she’d had with the tribes in the Bloodspires. None of those had ever been hostile, and she was certain that, in all those years, a lone female knight would have made a far easier and more tempting target than a camp filled with soldiers.
Donal’s smile widened, his teeth flashing a strangely brilliant white in the pale morning light. “Excellent,” he said, a hint of mischief in his voice. “Then perhaps you’d care to join me when I go ask them why they’ve suddenly changed their mind?”