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

Chapter 18
The corpses of my enemies lay splayed about my feet. Blood trickled from
my fist, dripping freely from the tip of my dagger and my knuckles to splash
and mingle in the upturned dust on the ground. The handle of my blade was
still stable in my grip despite the slickness of the blood. I stepped over a
corpse, his belly slit open so that his guts sloshed wetly onto the worn
pavement.
I searched the bodies, picking out a few copper rings and bracelets no doubt
lifted from their victims. I pocketed those, part of me glad that they would
no longer harm another. A rag, smelling faintly of rancid oil, sufficed to clean
my hands. I offered it to Morte who was probing a tooth with his tongue to
see if it had loosened on the thugs’ armor.
“Eh, no thanks, chief,” he spat, “You never know where those things’ve
been.”
Whenever I was ambushed by a group of thugs, most of the Hive Dwellers
walked a wide circle about me. One man, however, gazed admirably as I
dispatched with the rogues. Every inch of the man's skin was covered in a
web of black lines; it was as if some artist chose to accentuate every crease
in his flesh with a quill pen. The overall effect was such that even when his
face showed no expression, he appeared to be frowning.
I looked up to him, "Greetings."
"This one has a name: This one is called Porphiron." The man's voice was like
a gong; as he spoke, the lines on his face bent and settled into a series of
spherical patterns. "This one would know: why do you address this one?"
"Well, you were watching me. I guess I'm a bit curious."
"This one would have you know: This one cannot answer your questions."
The lines on his face twisted into angles, then split into a mess of scribbles.
"This one has only recently stepped foot in this place of walls."
"All right, then. Uh, but I have to ask you this: why do those lines upon your
face... move?"
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