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

do this?"
"Trust me, I'm in the mood to put something in its grave, and I doubt you'd
enjoy having me around for that."
He gave a curt nod, "Good luck, cutter. You'll need it."
Interlude
Ileron of Sen-Tau stares morosely into the distance, as the alleys and
avenues wending through his body take on a darker edge. Not a single
shadow falls over chalk-white plaster. The blossoms of his gardens are as full
and sweet with nectar as they could be. Yet once he stops speaking, the
silence of his streets begins to swallow everything else. The stillness of the
temple bells leaves a phantom ringing in your ears, like the echoed tingle of
a lost limb.
You lick your lips, just to experience the taste of your naked flesh. You drum
your fingers silently for the simple sensation. Anything at all is better than
the ghostly quiescence of an abandoned city.
When his voice breaks again it is old and tired, "I have seen lands like this
Curst before, in dying nations where people bled away little by little, leaving
only the pus of society swelling in their wake. I've caressed the walls of
these cities, and they spoke to me in the groans of a diseased man, slowly
eaten by the plague from within.
"Men flourish and fall like leaves. Each generation lies forgotten, buried
beneath the snows in winter; trampled into detritus in the spring. What
remains is the tree that held them. The death of men is no matter (no
offense to you, good citizens); for one such as I, it is the worms, and the
blight, and the white moss that poisons the roots that are the dirge's
echoes."
Scii-Tavakis' grip on her spear loosens, as if she no longer possesses the
988