It came into him in a rush, and suddenly Dean was alive. The Shadowed Glory unveiled his senses, sent the world into a spiral of greys – not obscuring black and white – but depth-revealing shades that showed him *everything*. Every concealing nook, every pulse-point, every vulnerable spot. Whereas Donovan was the healer and protector, able to save three lives with a gesture, Dean was an utter weapon. And with the floodgates of their power opened, he might have been considered worse.<br/><br/>He *streaked* into a blurry shadow of motion, moving too fast to follow. Two daggers appeared in throats, both thrown from a single gesture, as Dean flashed forward, hissing, “Not at my Knight. You don’t shoot at my fucking knight,” and then he was in the air, knees out, impacting with a third man, crushing him to the ground. His vision tunneling, punching daggers materializing out of nowhere, Dean slammed his fist down into the man’s face and again, and again. Hissing with glee and rage, he seemed to forget everything but the rush of violence, the thrill of carnage.<br/><br/>The snakes had taken out a fourth man. Which left two others. One, apparently cognizant enough to not simply stand there and watch, drew back and kicked Dean in the side. He must have worn enchanted armor, as it threw Dean across the room and against the wall, where he impacted with surprisingly lightness. Still, he winced as his hand fell to his ribs.<br/><br/>“Silly me. Too focused on that one. Donovan?” Dean muttered, looking at the remaining men, and then over at Donovan with a rueful glee. The blood from the guard he’d butchered made the look into a psychopathic leer, but hey, who cared as long as the guy was happy?<br/>