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

A dirty man, hunched and crabbed with age and darkness, shuffled over. His
lank, greasy hair flew from his shoulders as he looked around. It was the
same hermit we'd met underneath Curst. When he spied us he blurted out,
"Kyse the caretaker told me you'd be along. You've done a fine job of
weakenin' him... the town's chaos is subsidin' and his plan ain't workin' so
well. Head up and finish the job."
"How do you know this?"
The earth trembled then, like the cold shudder before a sneeze. Something
new was in the bones of this city. It was beginning to recover the sepsis that
had infected it. Curst was just on the edge of shifting, with one last barb
holding it back.
"I can feel him up there, waxing and waning like a burning moon. I can hear
him wondering when you will come. He aches for confrontation."
I looked upward to the balcony on which he stood, ribbons of divine fury
spreading like morning mist, "Then he'll have it."
~~~~~
We were far from the first to break in. With the doors smashed in from the
back, a herd of wild sohmien had been stampeding through the hallway.
Looters stuffed sacks full with anything, too panicked to care about the
crash of porcelain breaking or metal denting. It was no longer about greed,
but base instinct running wild once all control was lost.
We put them down like rabid dogs.
The second floor was more bothersome.
Curst guards, corrupted or decieved by Trias, stood guard for the Deva. The
four we dispatched with ease. Those in the next room were beset by other
foes.
Gehreleths, rabid with hunger, were surrounded by the traitors of Curst. The
massed throng of clashing demon hide and rusted steel was deafening, and
the confusion blinded them to our presence. They gave us marginally more
trouble.
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