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

"Yes, but what are the githzerai, exactly?"
Dak'kon was silent for a moment, then spoke. "Our history does not need to
be made known to you. We would bleed to death on time's blade before I
recited a fraction of the histories of our People."
I chuckled, "I don't need to know your histories... but I would know of your
people as they are now."
Dak'kon paused. "Know this and accept it as an answer: We are the People
who make our home upon the shifting plane of Limbo." With a deft motion,
Dak'kon slipped the blade from his back and held it before him.
His voice took on a smooth, grand tone. There was a sureness there that he
lacked before, strong and willful, "There, we mold the matter of Limbo with
our minds. We forge cities with our thoughts." As I watched, a series of
rippling waves of metal began to roll forth from the center of the blade. The
pitch and crest of the waves matched the inflections in Dak'kon's voice. "In
its chaos we dwell, with only our knowing to preserve us. We are the
githzerai."
I gazed at his weapon, "What is that blade you have... it moved, shifted in
response to your voice."
"It is a karach blade. It is an object that lets others know the rank of the
wielder."
I looked up at Dak'kon, "Karach? What does that mean?"
Dak'kon fells silent for a moment, as if searching for the correct words. "In
your tongue, the closest translation is 'chaos matter.' The People may shape
it with their thoughts. Karach is not shaped by heat, but by knowing oneself.
It is a mirror that reflects the will of the wielder on its surface and in its
edge. When one knows themselves, the blade is strong -- harder and
stronger than steel. When one does not know themselves, the blade is as
water -- formless and weak."
"What rank does the blade signify?"
He slung the weapon over his back again, "The blade is a symbol carried by
the zerth. A zerth is one who knows the words of Zerthimon, he who
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