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

We were in the Dead Nations.
We passed by an odd corpse, dead for sure, but its neck still writhed as if it
were trying to twist itself off his body. Some strange force held it back
though, restraining the full transformation into a vargouille, and I decided to
leave it be.
A pair of iron gates barred the entrance to the next chamber, but with a
push and a creak the way was open to the next chamber.
If the Mosaic Tomb was an exercise in intricacy, this was a work of regal
scale. Smooth blue-gray and violet stones were arranged in circular patterns
in the floor, spreading outwards like the extensions of a spiderweb. Ancient
columns, carved and polished, glowed dully in the fickle lamplight from the
torches set in the walls. Much of the stone matched the material that the
rest of the Weeping Stone Catacombs were made from, but where the
catacombs were rough and broken with the ages, the clean angles and
polished surfaces could have been found in a royal court.
But the halls were empty, and not a trace of life or warmth could be found,
aside from the torches that lit the main hall.
"Spooky," Morte muttered.
It was as if the very word was forbidden, an incantation of summoning. The
moment the first echo resonated back, a handful of ghouls scuttled from the
shadows. Four of them. I remembered our last encounter, which left
Dak'kon gravely wounded. We were hardly in the condition to fend off
another four ghouls.
Then two more entered, slavering and growling, spurred on by their
unnatural hunger.
And another three.
Five more.
Well... they don't call it the Dead Nations for nothing, I suppose.
It was when the gate behind us slammed shut that I muttered the most
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