Some part of him knew when he loosed his first arrow that he was sealing his own fate. However even as the foul beast speaks, spelling out his pitiful situation with relish, and in near complete accuracy he feels no fear. [i]'What I did was foolish, and in the end, pointless. It is true that I will spend the rest of what very well is almost guarantied to be a hopelessly short life kicking myself for doing it, but for some reason, that doesn't seem to bother me'[/i] His bow lowers ever so slowly as the beast goes on, the obvious pleasure he's taking in his self serving monolog making the elf's stomach turn, but he says not a word. He doesn't curse the necromancer's name, nor spew profanities in some sad attempt to make himself feel better. He doesn't have to.

He does indeed hear the mindless beasts approaching, but he feels no panic, no terror at the thought of so many undead racing to their master's aid. Instead a calm settles upon him and as the beast, Gilbert he calls himself, finishes his foul ego stroking. His hands move smoothly to unstrung his arrow and replace it in his quiver. He takes a single step to the side so he can set his bow out of the way, and in another smooth motion he removes his daggers. Placing them next to his bow he steps away from them. The mob is only a few seconds away now, but still, he remains in a state of calm he never knew one could reach before this very moment. [i]'I imagined I'd be much more angry at this point. True, deep inside I knew I would never leave these lands should I actually see this creature's face, but I guess I had the hope. Or more likely, the rage, to mask this knowledge'[/i] His eyes trail over to the elf and he says a silent prayer for his soul, though it is long gone from this world. 

His eyes glide over to the man using his now undead servant as a set and just before the door flies open letting in a stream of undead he give the man a smile of victory. An instant later several undead take hold of him, twisting his arms behind his back and forcing him to his knees. He closes his eyes, smile still in place though it flickers when one pulls on his hair, forcing his head back. He feels cold steel on his exposed throat but instead of it slicing into him, ending his life, the one holding it speaks. “Master, what shall we do with him?” His smile widens ever so slightly. Indeed, what is to be done with him?