There was something wrong in the air, Doran could taste it on his tongue. He had spent too long around Solas to not recognize necromantic mana.
For a second, he wondered if the boy was going to be ok.
Then he lit a cigar. If the boy survived, Doran was going to give him the bow. He was an archer. He could make use of it.
If not, Pan's mothering instincts coupled with Brandon's obsessive need to leave something behind were surely going to saddle the general with a new heir.
He looked around.
It was cold. The lightly dressed adventurers were shivering. He sighed.
"Edda," he didn't know when, but his system had packed up and left. A true and loyal subject to the Necromantic Union, the darned man had claimed to be.
Just someone who was unhappy with the fact that his nymph didn't want to take over the world, Doran believed.
