Dean smirked as Donovan worked his own particular brand of magic; the opposite side of the coin to Dean’s own. Light and healing where his was all dark and poison. It was majestic to behold, of course: Donovan was beautiful at what he did, but Dean wouldn’t let the other man know even an iota of that appreciation.<br/><br/>When the magic washed over him, repairing his ribs, Dean snarled, “I was already on the mend.” In truth, the Shadow healed rapidly, but the broken ribs would have hindered him for a few hours without Donovan’s aid. Still, pride. This *was* Dean, after all.<br/><br/>Moving out with Donovan, Dean saw the scene of carnage further down the tower, the smashed tree and the little dog. Frankly, Dean was rather fed up with this whole thing: he’d slaked his thirst for violence and murder, and was now ready for a peaceful night at an inn with some fetching bar maids. The kind with true décolletage.<br/><br/>Heh. Dean smiled broadly to himself, replying to the drow’s pronouncement with,  “Décolletage!” and then turned to make his way further toward the exit. Then he paused, thought a moment, realized that those six guards were the tip of the spear, and gestured graciously for Sae’Ka to proceed. Mages had magic to deal with large masses of enemies, a trait that neither he nor Donovan were particularly equipped for, unless they were *very* specialized enemies.<br/>