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

wrong-righting do-gooders?" Morte clicked his tongue.
"The man's a danger to us all!" she snarled, stabbing a finger at the hut,
"Dinn't ye hear?! He seeks ta spread the word of the L-" Annah glanced this
way and that, then dropped her voice to a whisper, "Her rival."
I rubbed my chin, "I know nothing about the rivalries between gods, b-"
"Don't yeh say that!"
"BUT- look, just hand it over and let's get going."
Annah's tail cracked against the ground, "Nay. I'm not followin' some
clueless addle-cove anymore! Ye've got the mark o' doom on ye, yeh do!
And yer not draggin' me to the depths wit ye."
"Pharod said you'd help me! We still need to find that alley-"
"Pharod can pike it for all I care. Mebbe this'll pay off another sod ta take
yeh. It's not worth goin' another two steps wit-"
I grabbed her shoulder. Her skin was milk-white, and soft under my rough
grip. But there was steel under that beauty, like a rose forged from metal by
a skilled artisan. And quick as a whip she turned, with a sound of metal
sliding against leather. There was a sharp stabbing pain in my gut and
looking down I stared dumbly at a punch-dagger buried right in my solar
plexus.
I looked up at Annah, whose eyes had grown wide with shock, as if she'd just
surprised herself with her own instincts. The only words that could come to
mind were, "Nice form..." but the blood that bubbled to my lips drowned
them in a gurgle. Oh, sweet pavement, here I come again.
THUD.
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