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

I felt a little guilty biting into the pear I purchased at the marketplace. After
all, Mebbeth was kind enough to put a little more meal on the stove for us,
and was patient enough when Morte complained about the slimy texture
and lack of flavor. Perhaps it was the way I clipped him across the jaw that
mollified her.
Still, the crunch of the pear was refreshing, and the juice burst sweetly on
my tongue. There was nothing supernatural about the flavor, but it was
perhaps the finest pear I ever had. I dropped a few coins into the merchant's
hands as I bought another couple for the road.
"They are my favorites," the old merchant chuckled, "So sweet! Reminds me
of my youth."
The cloth-seller Mebbeth mentioned was a spindly-looking merchant with a
brush of gray and red stubble across his chin. He wore several layers of
brightly colored robes, so much so that he looked like a flag with arms and
legs. He was shaking slightly as I watched.
"Greetings. Are you Giscorl?"
"I, Giscorl." He bowed and spread his trembling hands. As he did, I noticed
his hands and forearms were a twisted mass of black scar tissue... as if they
were once badly burned.
"Uh... what are you selling?"
"Giscorl buy cloth." Giscorl voice ticked like a clock, flat and measured.
"Giscorl sell cloth, wash cloth, mend cloth and..." He gestured at his layers of
clothing with his shaking hands. "...wear cloth."
I shouldn't have winced. My own arms were far worse off, after all, "Uh...
how did you hurt your hands?"
Giscorl didn't seem to hear me; he answered only with his spiel, delivered in
the same flat monotone: "Giscorl buy cloth, sell cloth, wash cloth, mend
cloth and..." He gestured again at his layers of clothing with his shaking
hands. "...wear cloth."
"I asked: how did you hurt your hands?"
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