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

more apt.
The small chamber held the corpse of a man with a surprised look on his
beak-nosed face. It was hard to tell how he died: whether from the
numerous horrific slashing wounds across his abdomen and throat, or from
the blood loss incurred when his right arm was nearly severed from his
shoulder. So mangled was his flesh that I was unsure how well I'd come
through if I suffered as much.
I felt sorry for the poor man. It was a hell of a place to get locked into,
clamped into a coffin with a lid snapping shut with the fang-toothed jaws of
a demon. If he didn't live to be sealed into this pitch-black tomb, I would
have considered him blessed.
Morte waited a moment, then floated up to take a closer look. Dak'kon
stood where he was, coal-gray eyes gazing at the body impassively.
"Ugh. That's a bad way to go," Morte muttered.
I nodded, "If we could talk to him, he'd surely have a hell of a tale."
It was then that we heard the hungry snarls from the shadows, and three
ghouls materialized from the darkness.
Damn.
Several bolts of eldritch sorcery, a few fierce bites, and a few graceful swings
later, the ghouls lay twice-dead at our feet. The battle had almost killed
Dak'kon, and halfway through I had to order him to back away and swallow
a blood charm before he died. The ghouls' talons were razor-sharp, their
fangs dripping with ropy saliva as they tore at us with an unnatural hunger.
Morte, fleshless and swift, came out relatively unscathed.
I spent the next hour helping Dak'kon bandage his wounds, and transferred
a good portion of my own life force to him. Wheezing, his eyes were
downcast and dull. The slump in his shoulders told me all I needed to know.
He was a great man once, but age and despair had drained him of much of
his vigor in youth, and bitterness had blunted his wisdom. Part of me was
surprised he still had the strength to shape and wield his karach blade.
His spirit may be drained, but his mind was focused.
264