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

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drops sprayed over the creature, and where they landed they sank in<strong>to</strong> its<br />

wooden skin as if it were thirsty for blood. Screw this.<br />

One hand outstretched a missile <strong>of</strong> force erupted from my palm, shattering<br />

the one that had <strong>be</strong>en crippled by Dak'kon in<strong>to</strong> a rain <strong>of</strong> splinters. I turned<br />

<strong>to</strong> the one now looming over me, and pale while light bloomed against its<br />

body. The shock wave <strong>of</strong> the blast rattled me from my teeth <strong>to</strong> my boots.<br />

When the world came in<strong>to</strong> focus again I s<strong>to</strong>od up unsteadily, head still<br />

spinning from the concussive explosion. Morte was already spitting out bits<br />

<strong>of</strong> wood, teeth smudged with sap.<br />

The plant-creatures fell one by one, and we wound our way through Ravel's<br />

maze.<br />

We crept past muddy plains, fought through lush green lands hauntingly<br />

silent <strong>of</strong> insects or birds, inhabited only by bloodthirsty flora. Brambles <strong>to</strong>re<br />

at our skin, our clothes <strong>be</strong>came sticky with sap and sweat and blood. Our<br />

boots grew slick with the juices <strong>of</strong> crushed moss.<br />

And there, at the heart <strong>of</strong> it, was Ravel Puzzlewell.<br />

She didn't look much like a myth, this plump, hook-nosed crone; outfitted as<br />

she was in a simple (if dirty) brown shirt and leggings, with a num<strong>be</strong>r <strong>of</strong><br />

pouches hanging from her frayed <strong>be</strong>lt. She seemed oblivious <strong>to</strong> our<br />

presence, more concerned with the tangled black roots woven <strong>to</strong>gether <strong>to</strong><br />

form the floor <strong>of</strong> the maze than anything transpiring around her.<br />

A tangle <strong>of</strong> jagged gray hair jutted from <strong>be</strong>neath the crone's hood, spreading<br />

<strong>do</strong>wn her shoulders like a mass <strong>of</strong> twisted gray roots. Sickly blue-gray flesh<br />

hung in loose folds from her face; her narrow chin, long and sharp, jutted<br />

forward in an extreme under-bite, and two filthy yellow canines protruded<br />

from her lower jaw, like small tusks.<br />

"Ravel...?"<br />

"Ah... visi<strong>to</strong>rs." The crone's voice was thick and scratchy, as if trying <strong>to</strong> force<br />

its way past layers <strong>of</strong> dust. Her eyes were a dull, bloody red, with black veins<br />

running through them like tree branches. As she gazed at me, a strange<br />

crawling sensation drew up my body, like snakes burrowing <strong>be</strong>neath my<br />

skin.<br />

912

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