Darin sneezed.
Loudly.
"AH—choo!"
He jolted so hard in the saddle that Steve besides him, currently in his full, proud war-beast mode—turned his head mid-stride and gave darin a long, slow blink.
"…Bless me," Darin muttered, rubbing his nose.
Vincent, riding ahead and perched on Grull's massive shoulder like a traveling philosopher-king, called back with a grin. "Is the mighty Overlord finally succumbing to mortal weaknesses? Shall we dig a hole and prepare a eulogy?"
"Shut up," Darin sniffed. "It's just the altitude."
"Or fate," the Sorceress murmured beside him, cloaked in her ever-present aura of knowing-too-much. "Your men are probably crying somewhere. The universe punishes leaders with sympathy sneezes."
Darin frowned. "That's not how magic works."
"You've met your cult. Are you sure?"
Fair point.
