Donovan pulled his heavy winter cloak around him, cursing in a heavy accent the wind and the snow. But especially the snow. He trudged onward, his boots seeming to crush the white powder underfoot. He stopped beside a rock, covered in the infernal whiteness, and brushed it off to make a seat for himself. Pulling the thick leather hood away from his face, he looked around. He wasn't an unhandsome man, but his face held a kind of general disdain that made all his good looks sort of wash away.
Breathing heavily and watching as the small puffs of steam came forth from his lips, he cursed again. "Damn cold. Why on earth 'id it have ta be cold? Ah canno' fight like this, shou' the need arise. Ah swear, if tha' little rat in the tavern was lyin ta me, Ah'll throttle im til..." He didn't finish. He heard a noise, like a crack of a branch. In an instant the cloak was gone, discarded to the ground. Underneath Donovan was wearing a simple outfit of leather, short sleeved shirt, pants, and boots. His hands, which were protected underneath gauntlets, went to the pair of identical swords at his side. His fingers twitched between the two, as though he were uncertain of which one he would use.
"Come on then. Whoever ya are. Whether ye be man or beastie, I'll take yer head afore this day ends, should ya come near me n my swords."
