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

"You could've drawn some of their blows," I scowled at Morte. Dak'kon
looked to be only a few stepping stones from death.
He snorted, "Hey, it's not my fault they chose to go after Mister Moody
here. I'm the smallest target out of all of us."
I grumbled. I'd have to gild him in coppers if he was going to help sponge up
some of the dagger blows.
I shuffled over to Dak'kon. The warrior-mage's eyes were coal-gray, his skin
a pale dusky yellow, thin and dry as parchment. I was bleeding from multiple
gashes myself. One long dagger had punched a kidney, and no less than
three slashes marred my chest and back. Yet the wounds were knitting at a
remarkable pace. I would recover over time, Dak'kon would not.
"Here," I leaned towards my companion and mentor, "It's not exactly
curative magic, but it might give you a bit more blood and breath."
He gazed at me with half-dead eyes, looking as if he was about to wave me
off. Dak'kon gave a resigned sigh, and bowed his head as I traced a few
glowing red symbols in the air.
"The years have not been so kind to me," he said hoarsely, "My blade has
become slower. My joints ache with time's weight. I know this."
"Nonsense," I said as I completed the incantation, "Baseless recriminations
aren't going to help."
"It was no recrimination," he muttered, "But an apology."
The thrum of sorcery shook us both as I touched Dak'kon's shoulder. I felt
myself drain, my body empty itself of life like an old wineskin. My head
spun, the world grew pale as my own life force flowed through the conduit I
wove and into Dak'kon. The old gith shuddered, gasped, and his cheeks
became fuller, his breathing easier. A moment of stillness passed between
us as I swayed, groaning. Dak'kon caught my hand before I could stumble.
"See? You're faster than me still," I chuckled dizzily.
He said nothing.
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