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

calm.
"If you must report to the Hardheads, do so from the safety of your home
after I leave. They won't be gentle on you if they believe the two of us are
associates," I sigh in a way that seems innocent and dejected, as if I had
borne by share of unjust accusations, "And if you must report me, my rooms
are at the Nimbic Thrall, in the Hive."
"I would never bring trouble on the head of my savior," Deionarra insists
quickly, her fingers brushing my arm. I pull away: not rudely, but flinching as
if I can't bear to be touched.
Deionarra murmurs a hasty apology, then looks up to me as we walk. I had
found her home weeks ago, and I have to make sure I let her lead. She may
be a bit slow of wits, but the blood of an oracle still runs in her veins after all.
So many precautions had been taken to not rouse her suspicions...
"Your scars... do they hurt?" she asks softly, shyly.
The question had been asked so many times that I have little patience for it. I
swallow the sharp response that wells up by instinct, and allow a long,
pregnant pause before I answer. "No. Let us be gone, Deionarra."
The corpses of the thugs cool behind us. Filthy rats they may have been, but
Hive rats never suspect betrayal when I flash good coin.
My stomach turns. My chest aches. Was that me, that soulless wight that
cloaks himself in the flesh of a man, just feigning vulnerability to lead her
on?
The memories came in slivers, bits and pieces that had fallen between the
cracks...
"But there must be something. My father is an Advocate... he has friends in
high places in the Fraternity of Order. The great libraries of Sigil contain
knowledge drawn from all across the planes..."
"No, Deionarra," I say firmly, "Please understand. I know what I am doing."
"I only wish to help," her voice lowers, and her eyes are downcast.
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