Oryx could do nothing but stare at his bloodied palms. His friends blood covered every crack and crease of his bones. Martox was dead. Another friend dead, and all his fault. Why couldn't he ever do more? He was raised by the gods to kill evil, but could never seem to save the good around him.

Oryx just felt empty, his light dimming in sorrow. Shame wretched at his being and grief engulfed his soul. All he wanted to do was weep or moan somehow, but he was sure that whatever tear ducts he once had were shriveled long ago.

"Not again," the skeleton mumbled, "I can't believe this. Not another damnit. Not another!"