The white-scaled S'Kra Mur stands tall within the ice cave. Fingers of pale light emanate from her, encroaching upon the natural darkness of the cavern and permitting limited sight.

Where once the walls reverberated with cries of outrage, the chanting of spells, and unearthly roars torn from the wretched throats of undead, there now remains nothing but restful silence. The revenant rot which yet lingers causes the S'Kra Mur to bare her teeth in disgust. She glances at the weapons and scraps of armor littering the ground. Abandoned. Ruined. Discarded.

She frowns.

"I see. It is as he said."

A film passes over the S'Kra Mur's good eye. She unshoulders her trident and drawls, "Work must be done."

Attempting to make as little direct contact as is necessary, the S'Kra Mur kicks and prods the sundry armaments and equipment to one side of the cavern.

"This will be destroyed. But first..."

The S'Kra Mur transfers her jaundiced gaze to the large block of stone at the far end of the chamber. She approaches the makeshift altar and, with a lash of her tail, glares at the unmarked slab as though it was the root of all the world's evils.

She passes one clawed hand over the surface of the stone without making contact. "Forgive me for what I do, but it needs be done," she intones. "I cannot allow even the possibility of demonic incursion."

The S'Kra Mur takes three deliberate paces back from the slab. She draws in a deep breath of frigid air, then raises one hand in a grand arc of invocation, claws splayed upward. In a voice that reverberates around the icy walls, she chants:

"Lord Drogor!
King of All Oceans! Master of the Storm!
All Mighty! All Powerful! All Seeing!
I call to Thee!
Grant me Your strength!"

With one arm still raised, the S'Kra Mur sweeps her trident forward to point at the stone altar. Her eye livid with the light of condemnation, she calls out, "I seek to annihilate that which dares impose its impurity upon what is Yours! All that is profane must be scoured from this world!"

The S'Kra Mur draws forth a massive and wildly jagged shark's tooth. "Behold! The Remnant of Your Wrath!"

Producing a stoppered vial of deep red wine, the S'Kra Mur tears out the cork with her teeth and pours its contents onto the tooth. Almost as soon as the wine touches the surface, it boils and evaporates in a puff of steam! A goblin brine shark, a sharpnose brine shark, and a bull brine shark loom up out of the steam, their jaws gaping. The vaporous apparitions twist around one another in a tripartite knot in the air before vanishing into nothingness.

"The sanctified waters of Your domain!"

Grabbing up a pinch of dirt from a cloth scrip, the S'Kra Mur holds it above the shark's tooth, chanting sibilantly. She grinds up the soil in her fist and, as she does so, a light rain of brackish holy water showers the tooth.

"The blood of Your servant!"

Without flinching, the S'Kra Mur plunges the serrated tooth into the side of her neck, just above the base of her shoulder. Withdrawing the tooth, she lifts it reverently, her trident upraised in her other hand. Throwing back her head, she howls, "In Drogor's name, I claim this place as His and cast the interloper to the depths!"

The S'Kra Mur slams the anointed tooth into the stone slab! Growling with indignation, she drags the jagged tooth across the surface of the stone. Her laborious efforts are accompanied by the protestation of fossilized cartilage against granite.

At length, the ordeal is finished, and the white-scaled S'Kra Mur draws back. She gazes balefully at her work; a jagged spiral gouged into stone, stippled with blotches of red.

She clears her throat.

"Well. An imperfect solution, but it should suffice. For now."

With a weary exhalation, the S'Kra Mur turns her back on the marked altar. In the pale light that enwreathes her, she appears desiccated and anemic. Slinging her trident across her shoulders, she applies herself to the business of gathering up the pile of arms. She grimaces. "Tch! What a dreadful pong."

The descent through the ice cave beneath the burden of assorted weapons and armor is a long and arduous process, even for a powerfully-built S'Kra Mur in her prime. As such, by the time she arrives at the entrance, the S'Kra Mur is wheezing with exertion and muttering darkly to herself. Why even bother to give a corpse a mail vest, anyway? If it were cloth or leather, at least it might have been burned on the spot.

A pair of young snowbeasts tumbling together in mock-battle at the cave mouth stop their playing to bristle and snarl at the S'Kra Mur, alerted by the sounds of irate hissing. She simply graces them with a benevolent smile lined with razored teeth.

"Peace, wild children. Your home is yet your own."