“Feeling better?”
Daine looked up from pondering her campfire at the uninvited visitor. If Donal felt any shame about unceremoniously inflicting himself on the Templar Ascendant, he did an outstanding job of hiding it.
Considering the significant transformations in his Class during the time that Daine had known him, it was surprising how similar he still looked. As Taelsin’s Secretary, there had been a bookish yet irascible quality that had well-suited his role as majordomo to the leader of a large City. It was not difficult to believe that he was a man who had enjoyed a well-drafted minute and found distinct pleasure in refusing the addition of an unexpected item to a pre-circulated agenda.
During the siege of Swinford, he had accurately determined that this administrative Class was no longer appropriate to current circumstances and had – through a manner Daine did not feel had been explained to her with any degree of clarity – changed into a more martial Class—that of a Dark Warlord.
This transformation, of course, had given Donal access to a far more potent range of Skills to help defend his City and, in no small part, was responsible for the funk of failure that continued to hang around General Souit. In many ways, Donal's new Class – with its focus on chaotic, pragmatic randomness – had been the perfect riposte to the Great General. Certainly, the many reversals during that confrontation had as much, if not more, to do with Donal’s plans than they did with Daine’s presence and fighting prowess.
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 Donal sit down next to her at her solitary fire with a mixture of awe and perplexity. He was a sight that, initially, defied description: an elderly man, his back slightly stooped and his hair a thinning, snowy white, yet moving with the vigour and precision of a far younger man. Donal's face – as it had been in his previous Class iterations - was a map of deep lines and weathered creases. His eyes, sharp and intelligent behind a pair of round spectacles, twinkled with an energy Daine knew had seen far more years than his elderly persona suggested. Though liver-spotted and gnarled with age, his hands moved with the Dexterity and Strength of a seasoned tracker, effortlessly handling tools and weapons. Daine had idly wondered to the Goddess what his stat sheet must look like, but her patron had – as so often where Donal was concerned – declined to comment.
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 effortlessly set traps, brought down beasts three times his size, and navigated the rugged terrain like a jackrabbit. The juxtaposition of his frail appearance and his vigorous actions seemed, at times, almost cruel, as if he had been granted a second youth without the corresponding physical rejuvenation. Daine both feared for his safety, wondering how long his aged body- could keep up with the demands of his new role, yet also felt slightly envious.
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.
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Looking at the man now, Daine's feelings were a complex tapestry of admiration, concern, and a touch of disbelief. She could not help but marvel at Donal's remarkable transformation. Here was a man who had embraced a new Class, gaining all these new helpful attributes and Skills, yet his body remained as it had been when she had first seen him when she was standing guard on the Road outside Keep Trellec.
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 was not put off, in the slightest, by her frosty tone. “But neither were you disappointed to be able to work out some of the frustrations that have settled on you of late. Rabbit?” As if from nowhere, he produced the skinned body of his latest catch.
Daine, somewhat taken aback, shook her head. “No, thank you. I have already eaten.”
“Do you mind?” Donal indicated her flame. Daine shrugged, at which stage, he drove a spit through the middle of the animal and propped it up above the flickering flame. “Haven’t had a bite all day.”
They sat in silence for a time. Daine accutely aware that her mouth was watering at the smell of the cooking meat. She did not know why she had refused the offer of food – Pride was ever a challenge for you, the Goddess whispered into her mind – but she resolved to accept should he offer once it was finished browning.
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 will be in the Bloodspires proper tomorrow. I’ve scouted about as far as I’m comfortable going alone, and I tell you, it will be no Sun Day stroll. It’s to be two abreast for most of the way – single file for some of it – and I’d hate to be on the path if some of the loose rocks start falling. We’re going to lose people.”
Daine nodded but kept her face flat. “We’ll lose people if we stay where we are.”
Donal nogged vigorously, tossing the last bit of rabbit into his mouth and licking his fingers with every indication of great relish. Daine glowered at him as he did so. “Oh, without doubt, my lady. I’m just not sure everyone is quite as pragmatic about impending death as we are. Of course, it probably helps that you and I would probably survive a fall off yonder cliffs. These others?” He swept an arm to encompass the rest of the camp. “Probably not. I fear it is going to get messy.”
“It has been, in your words ‘, messy’ from the moment Gallant Stonehand appeared at the walls of Swinford.”
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 was just rising above the mountains when Donal spoke again. During the time they had sat in less than companionable quiet, he had consumed two more rabbits and the hind leg of a deer – all without offering anything to Daine. “So, 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 have had the same thought.” Daine had travelled the King’s Road in the West for thirty years and could count the number of times she had encountered the tribes that lived in the Bloodspires on one hand. Certainly, they had never attacked her, and she was sure a lone female knight would have made a more tempting target than a camp filled with soldiers.
Donal smiled, his teeth glinting oddly white in the early morning light. “Excellent. Would you like to join me when I go and ask them why they did so?”