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

moment now his horde would be pouring through in a river of flesh and fang
and fury. Oh whoever was responsible would die along the span of eons,
and already he was planning out the devices that would separate the joints
with maximal efficiency.
Bule'zakrai gasped. A golden glow surrounded the city, encasing it like a
shell. Violet streaks rippled across its surface, pebbled with dusty
imperfections like burnished steel. A low hum rang across the battlefield,
once encampment, now smoldering ash-heap. The golden light built, and
Bule'zakrai howled, his cry matched only by the roar as Curst vanished.
No reinforcements. No new Godsman-craft siege engine. No fancy new
throne. If only there could be enough tears, Bule'zakrai would have wept.
The higher you climb, the more narrow the path, and the more jagged the
rocks underfoot. Somewhere, in the spans across the planes, someone was
laughing.
Far in the distance and almost out of earshot, the gehreleths roared.
Chapter 107
Curst flew from the blasted plains of Baator in its iridescent shell, surface
rippling and shifting colors like the skin of a soap bubble. Beneath us the
blasted peaks of Carceri bled away, and in a flash we floated above the
gloom of the Gray Waste. Just looking at it I could feel hope and aspiration
draining from me, bled in steady runnels. Beneath us the world seemed to
turn, and in an instant we floated along the veins of a single leaf, its waxen
surface broader than an ocean. Looking up we could see the branches
curling up to impossible heights, on which worlds hung like dew-kissed fruit.
"Yggdrasil," Morte gaped, "Wow, never seen it from this view before."
In another flash Curst hung between two cubes a thousand miles long, their
surfaces peppered and scarred with old battles. The two flat planes were
quickly pressing in on each other, and for a moment the denizens of the city
1093