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

We were outnumbered three to one. Thugs in their gang colors: red and
black, grey and blue, misty scarlet, rust-brown, the representatives of no
less than four bands stood toe-to-toe against us in that cramped alley. Part
of me hoped the worst that could happen was that I would wake up on the
slab again. The other wasn't so sure I'd have such a happy ending. One way
or the other, men would fall like chaff today.
If only I had had time to meditate over my spellbook. Gain an edge with
sorcery. "I really didn't want you in this, Dak'kon."
He eyed the leader. "He does not know his companions: an acolyte who
does not know his blade and handles it clumsily. They will fall." He
unshouldered his karach blade. "In Zerthimon's name." His whisper creaked
with the stiffness of decades, cool and sure as a windblown forest.
They came at us with daggers drawn, howling with lips scarred by the pox
and teeth filed to shark-toothed grins. Daggers glinted dully in the sickly
yellow daylight, piecemeal armor clattered and boots kicked up clouds of
dust as they charged. I was silent. Dak'kon was still. Morte cackled in a rattle
of teeth and chittering bone, and raced off with jeers and taunts, drawing
away three or four men who went red with anger.
I felt a dagger bury itself into the middle of my back and grunted in pain.
Something gushed inside, that nicked blade puncturing deep enough that I
could feel the warm blood trickling into my lung.
The large gang coming at us from our right was a feint: a handful of rogues
had snuck behind while we were distracted. I growled, spinning around as
that blade withdrew, its barbed edges tearing away flesh and sinew in a
horrible squelch. My dagger slid through the soft spot on one thug's armor
on the first strike, the tip cracked against dented steel on the second.
"Morte needs your help!" I shouted, "He'll be killed!"
Without hesitation, Dak'kon raced toward the fray with his weapon in hand,
sidestepping one thug and slicing the man through with the casual grace of
an ebon-eyed hawk.
He was a warrior of wind and steel: focused, precise, swift. Four thugs
surrounded Morte and Dak'kon, but the githzerai danced among the
slashing blades and spiked knuckles, knowing the crude simplicity of their
169