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

like the nine hells, but a gut wound like this was a slow death if fatal, and
with the right doctor it rarely was. I looked him in the eye as pure horror
made his pupils shrink back.
I grunted as my hands wrapped around his skull, "That tickles."
With a quick twist and a satisfying snap, Ash-Mantle's scream cut off in his
throat, the dying moan a mere whistle that echoed in his windpipe.
Morte cracked his jaw, "You're a real class act, chief."
"I'm really sorry, Morte," I looked over to the corpse, "It's just after all those
thugs... no one should have to deal with this stuff. I'm sorry." The guy
certainly didn't deserve to die, necessarily. I mean, all he did was steal from
me. And stab me with my own dagger.
It was something I had to remember if I was to find my way in this world.
Sometimes, it is true; one had to kill in order to survive. Death is a faculty
just as true to life as breathing or eating. But when someone appeals to
convenience rather than necessity… I stared at the corpse.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well. It's not like I use my noggin' for anything else," Morte muttered.
My stomach growled, "Come on, I'll buy you lunch."
A foul-looking man nearby was quick to notice he'd caught my attention; in
moments he was upon me, hawking his 'wares.' He carried a long wooden
pole; dozens of skinned and cooked rats dangled from it, swinging like
plump, fleshy fruit. As he spoke, he gestured to them with a broad,
filth-encrusted hand, smiling a yellowed, snaggle-toothed grin all the while.
"Oye, cutter, 'ow ye doin' there? Wot sorta deeee-licious ratsies is ye
interested in this fine day?"
"Oh by the Powers, chief. Why can't we ever go somewhere nice, huh? Like
the Topless Dryad or Mammy Marm's House of Many Mams," his voice was
jokingly cheerful, but there was still a bit of bitterness at our current
poverty.
"I really don't think we have enough coin for those places, Morte," I sighed,
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