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

"Hello."
"Oh... 'lo, sir." She squinted at me for a moment, trying to discern my
identity. For a merchant, she seemed unusually unconcerned about buyers.
"Oh my! 'Ere I was, thinkin' ye one o' me regular customers." She proffered
her fish-pole. "Tuna, sir? Mackerel? Sea cucumber?"
"'Sea cucumber?' Aww, now you're just making that up," Morte eyed the
pole.
I waved away a little brown squiggly thing, moist and shaped like a large,
lumpy black pickle, "No fish, thanks. I had some questions..."
"Hrmm..." Her mouth pressed down into a tight-lipped frown, and she
stared off over my shoulder.
I turned around to look at what she was staring at. I could see nothing of
interest behind me. As I turned back to the old woman, I caught her looking
at me... she looked away quickly, resuming her staring off into the distance
once more, as if gazing into the past.
"What? Do I look familiar to you?"
"I doubt she'd miss a tall, gray-skinned berk scarred up and ugly as sin."
"Goodness, no!" She paused for a moment. "Aye, ye do."
"Have you seen me before, then?" I couldn't keep the urgency from my
voice. A link to my past, any past, would be rare indeed. I had been
wandering this huge city for a couple good days now and to find someone
that recognized me, even if it was an addled memory, excited me. Such luck!
Her words were cautious, "I think... ye, or a man with yer very likeness, sir.
T'was so long ago."
"Tell me..."
"Well, sir, ye see... me sight's not so good now, t'wasn't back then, neither.
But I thought I saw ye walkin' past with a small group trailin' along behind
ye."
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