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

A solid punch in the face staggered him as he chipped a couple more teeth. I
whipped out the green steel knife I had slid into my belt, and lunged.
The thug was quick on his feet, spinning about to crack me in the side of the
head with a fist. I felt a sharp pain in my kidney, and snarled as I spun
around and slashed blindly. The rogue gaped, not expecting me to still be
standing. It hurt like the nine hells, but my body was used to pain. Hell, I
would've been surprised if half my nerves were still intact.
The tip of my blade punched through his temple by sheer dumb luck, sliding
six inches into his head. It rocked a couple of strokes as I tugged it out, the
teeth and barbs near the handle had caught on the bone. It stirred his brain
to mush, and I tore it out with a cracking sound and a spurt of blood and
goo.
My skill with the knife was decent, but the thugs poured in one by one,
surrounding me. Surrounding Morte.
“Morte! Get the hell away from here! Just run!”
Another thug fell, crimson spurting from his throat, fountaining in multiple
small wounds. Morte spat the blood from his tongue, “What, chief? You
think I’d leave you?”
“Just GO!” and then a blade found my heart.
“Hghlllfth!” that iron tang was becoming all too familiar as it spilled from my
lips. I fell, back arched uncomfortably over the mugger I had just killed. The
spines of his armor dug into my back uncomfortably, the wounds in my
chest and belly ached as the warm life-blood poured out of me.
In the distance I heard Morte’s fading shouts, the yell of the gang as they
chased him. Slowly the pain faded, the world grew dim.
I coughed, the words spilling from my lips in a whispered croak.
“Damn it...”
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