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

well, at least I'm doin' well fer meself - fer a Hiver, at any rate, eh? I must
visit him, soon." She looked at me closely for the first time since I had
spoken. "Are ye a friend a' Nodd's, or...?"
I thought about it for a moment, "Of a sort, yes. Why?"
"Could ye..." She frowned, biting her lip, as if considering something. "Could
ye give this to him?" She stepped close to me and offered a pouch of what
looked to be about one hundred copper commons. Out of the corner of my
eye I saw Morte's jaw drop.
I bowed my head, "Yes, I swear I'll get to him."
She handed me the pouch. "I thank ye. Go speak ta Nodd fer me, an' tell him
how I worry about him so!"
Morte's stare was burning into the middle of my back as we continued down
the street, "Please tell me we'll be buying some company with that."
"Not our money, Morte. Besides, a good deed is its own reward." He clicked
his tongue, disappointed.
We circled around this portion of the Hive, cleaner than Ragpicker's square
though not as lively as the other streets we'd been. The smell of cheap ale
and pipe-smoke wafted out from some of the doors, and at every corner a
couple of thugs stood, keeping an eye out for targets. At the north end of
this street, though, a tree had been planted.
It was a sad, sickly thing, brown-leafed with branches curled in on itself. It
grew fitfully in the shade, poisoned as it was breathing in the foul stench of
Sigil.
There was a tired-looking, sorrowful old man gazing at that ash-dead tree in
front of him. He was mumbling to himself and tapping his chin, as if trying to
figure something out. Occasionally, he shook his head sadly.
"Greetings."
He seemed momentarily startled as I interrupted his train of thought. He
spoke in a calm, unhurried tone, but one full of sadness. "Oh... greetings to
you too, friend. How's this day find you?"
103