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

Dhall wheezed, clutching his chest. I waited patiently for him to catch his
breath, and when he looked up to me again his eyes were cold and dreary.
"The records we Dustmen keep have noted little of it. All we know is that it
is ancient, that it is the nest of countless tortured souls, flitting through the
shadowed halls like wasps..." he coughed, pulling a rag from his robes. It
came back yellow with sputum and speckled with red. "Two hundred years
ago the Doomguard planned an assault on the inner sanctum. Three of their
Nether Ships could not breach the walls, and nothing remained of the
assault to tell exactly what happened."
There was little more Dhall could say, and we left unsatisfied.
We walked through the embalming rooms, the only sound aside from the
occasional groan from a zombie was that of our footsteps. It was a cold,
hard sound... hauntingly rhythmic in what would otherwise be silence. Only
occasionally would I see the gray swish of a Dustman robe, gliding past
archways and behind columns like the trails of a ghost.
"Hey!"
I spun around quickly, whipping out my dagger. Annah and Dak'kon followed
suit. Nothing but zombie workers. The whole chat with Dhall had left me
unsettled if I was this jittery.
Morte had been the one to speak up, and he had just floated over to one of
the zombies, "Chief, check out this one."
"Not this again."
"Naw, chief. Look. I think we know this guy."
I leaned in. His features had withered, with flesh pickled and gray-blue with
preservatives. Yet there was something about the arch of that chin, the
remaining tufts of those brows that did seem familiar. The number "331"
had been chiseled into his skull and his eyes and lips were stitched closed. A
gaping hole had been torn in his throat, and he smelled foul.
My eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. I leaned in, whispering in the soft
murmurs of the dead. The words were dry and creaked with age, but the
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