(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

along the horizon.
"Sandstorm?" I murmrued. It didn't quite make sense. The air was still with a
dull, dry heat... not the sort of air that would brew a storm.
"Uh, chief? You should know something about the things that live in this
part of the outlands."
"What's that?"
"They're always hungry.”
I could barely curl my bicep, much less make a gesture. It would still be a
good hour before I could cast the simplest of spells, and in the rush from the
Prison and the battle against Vhailor we'd been left feeling like a lump of
butter freshly pounded from a churn. It was then that we turned to the most
reliable combat strategy in such times.
"Let's run like hell!"
Panic tends to call up certain reserves of stamina you've never realized you
had, and our flight took hours with us swallowing blood charms like candy to
keep our strength up. Dak'kon's leg was crippled until Grace could mend it
properly, but he was still able to grip my neck. My own arms flopped
uselessly behind me as I carried him, and the absurdity of the situation left
him mumbling some bitter oaths in the Githzerai tongue.
Grilligs scaled the cliff faces like insect swarms, leaping towards us with
talons thirsty for fresh blood. Gronks roared at our passing, teeth eager to
crush bone and suckle the sweet marrow within. The sohmein, though, were
the real pissers. Running like the wind with wide, toad-like grins, they
pursued in a mindless stampede at the sight of our movements, and tried to
run us down seeking our flesh.
Then, little by little, the packs broke away like slivers of melting ice.
We bent down then, Annah fairly collapsing as she took in ragged breaths.
Dak'kon nearly leaped off my back, eager to stand on his own again. Even
Grace seemed a little out of her normal composure. I could almost taste the
blood in my lungs, as if I had been sucking down air so hard it had sliced the
inner lining of my trachea.
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