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

language. The Scripture of Steel. It was a spell, one of a form I was
unfamiliar with. Its powers drew from the meditative calm of knowing, so
different from the rituals of Mebbeth's recipes. I looked over the chants, the
three thoughts of the ritual. Though alien, the words quickly melded
together as one just as the script of Mebbeth's recipe cards did, just as the
circular runes of the Githzerai language did. With a haunting familiarity, I
then knew the Scripture of Steel.
I blinked, and Dak'kon looked on, his calm, stony face unsurprised at the
efficiency with which I absorbed the teaching. "I would still know more of
Zerthimon's teachings."
Dak'kon's fingers felt around the edges of the stone circle, and he twisted it
clockwise, the links clicking until they had settled into a new configuration.
He then reversed the motion, resetting the stone. "The next Circle of
Zerthimon is open to you. Study it, then I will hear your words."
I nodded, "I'll look it over when the time is right."
~~~~~
As we went farther, we found the crevices and passages of the warrens
were filled with the same kinds of thugs we had seen in the Hive –
presumably low-cost bodyguards for the Collectors. I suppose it was too
much to expect that the filthy rabble in these warrens would leave us be.
But what else could I expect from a trash heap than a nest of rats?
They came at us in droves, gangs of ten against three in the hopes that a
pincer attack would allow them to outflank us. We held firm as best we
could, Dak'kon standing as a storm of focused steel while bolts of light burst
from my fingertips, shattering against flesh and patchwork armor in a burst
of blood and glittering motes. Ten wily scavengers came at us, and when the
bloodlust cooled and the final sparks of magic fizzled, we stood over a mass
of bodies and severed limbs. Blood was seeping into the stone and ancient
masses of compressed garbage. The crimson pools did little to soften the
crushed and petrified trash.
Dak'kon leaned against a loose and creaking wall of wood planks and rotting
cloth, his breathing labored. Morte probed a loose tooth with a tongue.
Compared to us, he came out unscathed.
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