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

halls. He ignored the blood trickling down his shoulder, the bruised rib in his
side. Countless scars from a lifetime of battles still ached- the memory of the
body was sharper than the memory of the mind in some ways- and he
ignored his fresh wounds as merely two more.
Cries of war and futile prayers resonated from empty chambers, and he
knew their sound. They were ghosts of betrayal and agony... the spectres of
Shra'kt'lor.
Craftsmen were taking up hammers and chisels, bakers and butchers their
knives. Apprenticed warriors still too young to know the blood of illithids
wetting their blades readied themselves. Mind mages and psions, monks
and ascetics of every band gathered and murmured their mantras trying to
strengthen what apostasy had cracked. Yet the damage was done...
The screams of a dying city chased him through the darkness.
Dak'kon pressed a hand to his pouch, gripped the round disk in comfort. The
power of the Circle of Zerthimon lay in its teachings, not its form, but it had
helped Dak'kon survive the Fall of Shra'kt'lor once. He would survive it again.
Another one of those great misty sentinels swept toward him down the hall,
and Dak'kon turned, sliding to a halt. Difficult to charge these things... the
creatures were all offense, and their umbral carapaces were spiked like
thorn-crabs besides. He turned to evade, but a second shadow swooped in
toward him. His head turned quickly to the other side... to a third shadow, a
fourth, a fifth...
Dak'kon focused, and his zerth blade sang into a serrated edge, sharp
enough to cut a thought. There were so many, from all sides...
"Shadows..." Dak'kon reminded himself. These were not the dead of
Shra'kt'lor come back to haunt him, no matter how they crooned.
Another shape slid from the shadows, its brambled form wavering like vines
in a beeze.
its voice
thrummed among the crowded shades, and they seemed to waver in
response.
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