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

Morte didn’t have such corporeal limitations.
It was still a little unnerving to see a skull barrel past me, jaws open. Morte’s
teeth bit into the woman’s shoulder and she shrieked, spinning about and
stumbling to the ground.
“Don’t hurt her!” I tried to yell out, but it came out as a ragged wheeze.
I caught up in a few quick strides and grabbed the woman’s wrist. There was
no blood along her shoulder, thankfully, just a few teeth marks.
I caught my breath, “Calm down... please.”
The woman was tough as nails, her face twisted in a snarl. She was haggard,
wrapped in rags. Her hair was disheveled and dirty, and her complexion was
extremely dark. Burns covered her arms, and her right hand was a fused
lump of flesh... it looked melted, like wax exposed to a great heat.
“What issit y’wanta me? Let go of Ingress! Let go!” The woman's accent was
thick, and it was difficult making out what she was saying.
“Do you... do you know me? I noticed-” she was shaking her head.
“Don’t know... don’t know scarred man...”
I knew then. That familiar gleam in her eyes wasn’t recognition. It was
something I knew that shined in my own. There was the same confusion, the
same fear. I was as lost in this city as she was, a foreign intruder prodded
and sliced, burned by the chaos and the dangers of Sigil. My throat still
itched.
There was a mad gleam in her eyes, “Y’wanta me t’leave? NOT leaving this
city, so I’m not. I can’t, tried, it’s not a city, it’s a prison t’everywhere.”
“A prison?” It was beginning to seem like everything I said was a question.
“They also call Sigil ‘the Cage,’ chief.”
“There’s Worlds, there’s...” the woman’s eyes gleamed madly. “...planes
that be sinking sands, fields thirsty nettles be, sightless worlds where y’limbs
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