It's been longer than Jamie cares to remember than he's used his own name. Openly being a rifter is a death sentence, and he's made the decision long ago to go underground, long before the Inquisition was forced to abandon Skyhold. The people that know him also know that "Jamie" disappeared in 9:45 Dragon, gone for long enough for people to assume that he was dead. The man that has come back to the Inquisition may bear some faint resemblance to Jamie, if anyone cares to peer past the beard and the scars and mentally dress the man that favors dark leathers and gloves in a kilt, but he never calls himself Jamie anymore, at least not in anyone's hearing. He's Black Donald now, or just 'Donald', to his friends. It's the only tie he allows himself to his old home now - some people back in Scotland use 'Black Donald' to refer to the Devil - but it's a tie he's never explained. The days of him trying to talk about Earth are long gone.
Instead, he focuses on what needs to be done, going on patrols and taking his turn at fighting off darkspawn or the occasional deepstalker incursion, using his downtime to make sure his blade is sharp and ready for whatever needs to be done.
There's still flashes of the old Jamie that surface from time to time, however - times where he makes sure to help the members of the Inquisition who've made it here are taken care of as best as he can. Sometimes it's making sure that someone's wounds are tended to, either by finding a healer or dressing them himself if he has to. Sometimes it's making sure those who need it have food, even if it means he'll go hungry. Every once in awhile, there'll be a friendly clap on someone's back or a joke or two told, but even during those times, it's rare that the smile on his face reaches his eyes. There's been far too much lost for him to be truly happy now.
Above ground
He goes out more often than some, using his knowledge of the tunnels and back passages to slip out quietly. There's more that needs to be done than just keeping the darkspawn away. There's contacts to be met, either to pass along or get information. There's supplies to be gathered, either through hunting or through raids. There's strikes to be made against the enemy - and where he goes, a sigil of a bear follows, burned into whatever nearby surface he can find.
There's still fighting to be done, and while he may not saying so publicly, deep down he's still a McCrimmon...and a McCrimmon's not going to go down without a fight.
Jamie/"Black Donald" - Ortan Thaig or above ground
It's been longer than Jamie cares to remember than he's used his own name. Openly being a rifter is a death sentence, and he's made the decision long ago to go underground, long before the Inquisition was forced to abandon Skyhold. The people that know him also know that "Jamie" disappeared in 9:45 Dragon, gone for long enough for people to assume that he was dead. The man that has come back to the Inquisition may bear some faint resemblance to Jamie, if anyone cares to peer past the beard and the scars and mentally dress the man that favors dark leathers and gloves in a kilt, but he never calls himself Jamie anymore, at least not in anyone's hearing. He's Black Donald now, or just 'Donald', to his friends. It's the only tie he allows himself to his old home now - some people back in Scotland use 'Black Donald' to refer to the Devil - but it's a tie he's never explained. The days of him trying to talk about Earth are long gone.
Instead, he focuses on what needs to be done, going on patrols and taking his turn at fighting off darkspawn or the occasional deepstalker incursion, using his downtime to make sure his blade is sharp and ready for whatever needs to be done.
There's still flashes of the old Jamie that surface from time to time, however - times where he makes sure to help the members of the Inquisition who've made it here are taken care of as best as he can. Sometimes it's making sure that someone's wounds are tended to, either by finding a healer or dressing them himself if he has to. Sometimes it's making sure those who need it have food, even if it means he'll go hungry. Every once in awhile, there'll be a friendly clap on someone's back or a joke or two told, but even during those times, it's rare that the smile on his face reaches his eyes. There's been far too much lost for him to be truly happy now.
Above ground
He goes out more often than some, using his knowledge of the tunnels and back passages to slip out quietly. There's more that needs to be done than just keeping the darkspawn away. There's contacts to be met, either to pass along or get information. There's supplies to be gathered, either through hunting or through raids. There's strikes to be made against the enemy - and where he goes, a sigil of a bear follows, burned into whatever nearby surface he can find.
There's still fighting to be done, and while he may not saying so publicly, deep down he's still a McCrimmon...and a McCrimmon's not going to go down without a fight.