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

"We're coming, chief!"
Karach sang and teeth chattered as my companions came to my aid. The
creature screeched and hissed as black blood spilled onto the stones.
Half-blind and frantic I groped around as the creature's clawed feet
stomped. Now and again those razor talons missed my arms by a hair, and
twice they grazed my flesh.
My fingers curled around the bone dagger's hilt, and taking advantage of the
troco's confusion I thrust the blade up into its heart. The first blow merely
earned an agonized screech, but with the second and third stabs its
movements began to slow.
I don't recall how many times I gouged pale flesh, but by the time the frenzy
was over I was covered in a good layer of bilious black blood.
I did what I could in those catacombs. It was a tenuous alliance, born kicking
and screaming and soaked in the blood and fluids of the mortal dangers that
lurked in these catacombs. I fought only to carve a way deeper into the dank
tunnels with the slim hope that I might find the bronze sphere, while the
ghouls fought only to spread their dominion so that they might sate, even
for a moment, their neverending hunger.
And once they achieve their goal, I would be useless to them, protected only
by the edict of a dead King.
Some days, I just really need a hug.
Room after room I slew the creatures. By the outdated totems in troco-filled
chambers it seemed that the monsters of the dark were taking back their
territory. Even with the edict in place I hoped the ghouls would value my aid
when we drove the creatures back. I'm sure of it.
Standing in the middle of a crossroads, a pair of ghouls waved me away.
"Ssss! Come no closer, human!" the female hissed.
"Wait, I can help," I insisted as I stepped forward.
And then that chorus of Vargouilles’ screeches gave substance to the
warning.
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