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

than their eyes, cutter... some of them better than others. I sensed the
hearts of my foes - your foes - and my arrows always struck true. Ah, those
were some times..."
"And what about Morte and Dak'kon?"
"Wait, what? That pickled meatsack better not be talking crap about me,
chief."
"That filthy-talking skull was hankering for a bruising, so it was!" Xachariah
hissed, "Always smarting off, it was, and making fun of my condition!"
"Uh, he says he misses you, Morte." I was pretty sure that sounded
convincing.
"Hmm. Guess we got the wrong deader after all."
"And the grim-lookin' gith..." Xachariah continued, "unfriendly and silent,
like all their kind. Didn't trust that gith a lick, I didn't. See, cutter, them
spindly giths care only about two things: keeping out of slavery and killing
them squid-headed illithids. Everything else is just lower down the slope,
and he didn't give a damn about any of us other than you. Always on guard,
even when you wanted to be alone to scribble in that damn journal..."
"My journal? What about it? What happened to it?"
"That scrapbook that you'd stitched together outta yer own flesh and had
more pages than I had years in my life! Good fortune indeed if you've lost
that ghoulish book! Always scribbling in it, you were, and it smelled a fright.
It was like you were afraid that at any moment someone would take it
away... you wrote in it 'til skin tore from your fingers and I wondered if you
were trying to spill out your brain box through your pen. Sometimes we
would hold up for days while you wrote. I hated that infernal book. It
seemed to hold you by the heart, and not in a kind way. The last I heard of
it, cutter, it was in your possession. If you don't carry it, I don't know where
on the Planes it could be."
Damn. "What led you to this state, anyway?"
His voice dropped, as if ashamed. "It's a hard path following in your
footsteps, cutter, and many terrible things did I see. I took to drink, and
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