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

Surrounded by Vargouilles, I was in a poor position to play to my strengths
and lob bolts of furious doom onto the critters. Hell, I was saving them for
something I thought was more threatening.
If I died, would my head detach and float around biting my allies? Would I
be consigned to a fate of eternal damnation fluttering around these halls
and attacking unwary Buried Villagers looting the tombs? "The Eternal
Vargouille," they'd call me. "Watch out for the one that's scarred and ugly,
as opposed to the ones that are just ugly." Well, at least then Morte and I
would have something in common.
But enough philosophising... time to kill with something sharp and/or heavy.
There was no real weight to the critters, and thus my dagger knocked them
away as much as it stabbed them. But bowled into Morte's butting forhead
or cleaved in half by Dak'kon's keen blade, it was effective enough.
And then there was another chorus of screeches from down the hall.
Oh damn. Another fight…
~~~~~
One arm hung uselessly at my side as I lay against the wall. The ancient
stone was damp and cold, and the rubble itself was moist with stray trickles
and condensation. A large hunk of flesh had been torn from my bicep by
hungry fangs, and slowly the pink flesh beneath was knitting together. If I
looked closely I could see the pulse of blood flowing through the tissue.
I chose not to look closely.
Morte made a clicking sound with his tongue, "Damn. That hurt, chief?"
"They severed the nerve," I said flatly. Perhaps I was being stingy with the
blood charms, but all I needed was a few hours and I'd be in top condition
again. Those were best saved for Morte or Dak'kon.
"While we're waiting..." I cleared my throat, "...Dak'kon?"
"What is your will?" he intoned.
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