Normally Dean would have found the situation quite enticing: three females in a room with him and Donovan – whom Dean saw as an extension of himself in many ways, and thus not a competitor for attention. This was far from normal times, however. The warrior-woman was a rancid, razor-shaped cunt. The fox was a mischievous magic-demon. And, more mysteriously than all of it, was the curvy elf. Dean had no fucking clue about her. She seemed powerful, was clearly a spellcaster, yet she wasn’t trying to lord it over the rest of them or overtly manipulate the situation. Dean would, of course, have noted any mind or shadow magics and was quite effective at penetrating most enchantments – if only for the purpose of killing spellcasters.<br/><br/>All this added up to a mixture of resentment, guarded anticipation, and confusion – none of which were emotions that the Shadow particularly cared for. Put his cock in a mouth and he’d be as settled as a stroked cat. Put him in a room with three unknown variables and…well. Fuck.<br/><br/>So he leaned against the hull of the ship, two throwing daggers in one hand, the edges glistening with green ichor and shadowy power – ready to throw either at whoever showed the first sign of violence. As he watched the group converse, he quite casually reached into a pocket and withdrew a vial of some horrible toxin and began tapping it against one of the blades, as if considering whether or not to apply a new coating.<br/><br/>“Friends is good,” he said at last to the elf, giving her a leering, overtly sexualized look followed by a pretty solid A- eye-fucking. The man had an image to maintain.<br/>