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

take up a defensive stance when the mismatched throng set off pounding
the tables and throwing mugs. Feral beast-men reveal their claws and
demons snarl, huffing fire and smoke as eyes redden with fury. You only
hope that no one is foolish enough to pull a dagger: once steel is drawn in a
crowded bar the only thing left is a mass slaughter and some new bodies to
warm the beds of the Prison for the Mercykillers.
Indeed, steel is drawn, but not by one of this unwashed rabble. Shara
Six-blades draws a gleaming curved sword from under the counter and, with
a hefty swing, spears it six inches deep into the surface. With the
ear-splitting crunch of wood against steel, A hundred pairs of eyes turn to
face a stone-faced marilith drawing out another two sickle-curved blades.
Even the uppity G'mir seems to be thinking twice before starting anything.
Shara purses her lips and nods in satisfaction at the ensuing silence like a
stern den-mother quieting her unruly children. With one taloned hand she
points to the deva, "Master Avariis. You've performed well in this tavern for
as long as I've known you, but this is the first that I've seen you act so crass
as to leave a tale unfinished. Do you care to explain yourself?"
With a smile of supernatural calm, the bard fingers his lyre and steps
gingerly among the shards of shattered mugs at his feet. With a silver smile
and a polite bow, he addresses the crowd, "Apologies, Mistress Shara, good
sirs and ladies. But the power is not within me to continue this tale.
However..."
Again he pauses for emphasis, and a hundred craning necks lean towards
him.
"Just get on with it!" a voice snarls from the back of the bar.
Oudilin coughs. "Ahem. Tales of the Nameless One have been scattered
throughout the Planes in the years since his legend was flesh. Some are
dying echos, a hundred times removed from the original source. Some," he
gestures to the journal perched next to his seat, "are left as his true legacy,
scribed memories fresh with his experiences and heavy with the corporeality
of truth."
He leans over to take his chalice of tawny golden wine, still standing after
the crowd's fury. The room simmers as he takes a delicate sip, enigmatic
eyes glancing over the rim of the glass. "It was said that the Nameless One
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