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

gain all sorts a' odd powers! Make a basher's brain pour out 'is ears, they
will! Downright frightenin'... it's just wrong, I tell ye. That's why Sigil's so
eager to be rid of 'em... the bounty, an' all."
The word was music to my ears, "Bounty? Someone pays for rat's tails?"
"That's right, cutter! There's a berk in the Office of Vermin an' Disease
Control, name a' Lort, who pays a bounty on 'em. A copper a 'ead -- er, tail --
it is, ey. But they gotta be brain vermin, they do... not just ordinary rats."
"Tell me more about this Lort fellow."
"'Is name's Phineas. Phineas Lort. Think 'e was some sorta 'ighup, he was,
put down by 'is rivals an' stuck 'ere in the arse-end a' Sigil. The berk sits in
there alone all the night an day, it seems, waitin' fer folk to bring in tails an'
payin' them the bounty. Ye know the best part? Poor sod must be allergic to
rats, 'cause he's always got a 'uge rash goin'! Ho ho! Powers be praised I
ain't that fella."
"'Put down?'" Any idea why that would happen?"
"Well, 'e's right chatty, 'e is -- 'e'll rattle 'is bone-box fer hours on just 'ow
smart 'e is an' the like. Mayhap that's got somthin' to do with it." He
shrugged.
I chuckled, "I think I can handle that."
"So," he grinned, "Think ye'll be willing to try a gool 'ol ratsie? They's fine
eatin' they is!"
"I think I'd rather eat offal," Morte retched.
I winced. Perhaps Morte was right, "Er. Another time."
Creeden shrugged and went happily on his way."
"Don't think that a hot meal is gonna make us square, chief. I expect some
prime attention from a gal later."
I dipped a hand into my pouch, gauging how much we had, "Well, I'm afraid
it won't be Mammy Marm's, but I'll see what we can get."
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