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

melted in the ensuing dischord until stone became ice, then sublimated into
buffets of wind which scattered the corpses like rags before coalescing into
raw, crimson magma, wrapping flesh and bone into an ashen caress. Smaller
bodies, githzerai children perhaps, had been flung into the misty void,
drifting like broken dolls. They had died long before the chaos could've
suffocated them. I took small comfort in that.
When the walls of Shra'kt'lor had been breached, when the slim barrier
between order and chaos crumbled, it was not only the metaphysical
substance of the realm that had flooded in, wild and fey and giddy. No, it
was joined by the chaos of war: githyanki came howling with razor-toothed
ululating screams, illithids shambled in armed with thoughts that pierced like
lances. The slaadi swarmed along the once-pristine walls and formless
nimbus screams drove the inhabitants mad with terror, softening them up to
be devoured by the ravenous blades and talons of their enemies.
I am silent as I tread along the broken island, two whole blocks of the city
that had broken off and had been sent floating into the misty void. Overhead
the realm of Limbo plays itself out in pretty random smatterings of
transsubstantial matter. Ashen snow flutters down onto the remaining
streets, as if some latent psychic residue wept in lament.
There is only the distant roar of the chaos above and the sandy crunch of
debris beneath my boots. I walk past the bodies, the blood, the utter and
absolute ruin. In a few days the lingering psychic will of the Anarchs will
sputter and die out and slowly this islet would dissolve, yielding the corpses
to the embrace of mad oblivion.
I stop. There he is.
I focus on the dying man that lies before me. Kneeling, I examine the zerth to
see if he still lives.
The survivor (if one can call him that) is a githzerai, his body embedded in an
earthen pocket that swirls around him - unconsciously, he has formed a
grave from the elements, and though bits of fire and water lick at his face, he
does not respond. His hands are ashen, his coal-black eyes focusing on
nothing - his emaciated frame speaks of starvation, but I know it is the least
of his wounds. It is faith that dealt him the mortal blow.
I look for the blade he carries.
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