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

knew them for the forgeries they were. Many of my bretheren died as we
fled, embracing their blades to silence their knowledge of githzerai arcana
before it could be bled out from them."
Grace shook her head, "Your people suffered from no folly, Dak'kon. Few
know that Lord Paracs has no official capacity in Baator. He sells false
documents of passage at exorbitant prices, and leaves the buyers to suffer
their fates."
"Several bands have passed through recently," Dak'kon continued, "Perhaps
a small contingent returning from a campaign in the Blood War."
"So we don't even have the protection of fake documents. Great."
Dak'kon shook his head, "Such a thing would be of little use. The tracks of
one who passed are too large. They belong to the greater baatezu: red
abishai if not a cornugon. They would not be fooled."
"But they can be broken," I said, readying my spells, "Fhjull is testament to
that."
"Chief," Morte bobbed, "It's over this way."
Our progress was measured in such cruel increments: abishai blood, black
and oily, sizzled against the stones and marked our passage. Shorn wings
and severed limbs lay scattered on the red sand, and their former owners,
screeching their rage in reptilian snarls, were silenced with swift efficiency.
We moved in the steps of a dance, each participant with its own role. Steel
and bone and will-forged metal shielded the core of our group, where magic
and missiles flew out to crash against the hordes.
Dak'kon in particular fought with a fervor that he would usually reserve, I
suspect, for illithids and githyanki. Where githzerai use order to shape chaos
to their will, this entire plane used order as shackles against all who would
enter. It was an abomination in his eyes.
Me, I just needed answers.
Finally the lumbering cornugon that directed the group died under the bites,
the stabs, and the bolts of force.
1051