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

Registered Servant of the Dustmen, either by Graffiti, Malicious Attack,
or by Posting Notices, will constitute FELONIUS ASSAULT and the
Perpetrator will be Answerable for the Vandalism of Said Servant." - By
Order of The Hall of Speakers -
"WANTED: Able-bodied person willing to investigate a matter of the
utmost importance to the Dustman cause. Will offer suitable
compensation upon successful completion of said task. Interested parties
inquire with Initiate Norochj, Gathering Dust Bar."
"Looks to be good jobs, Morte."
"Yeah, ones that actually pay. You know, more than a nice stroking of your
conscience," He tilted in the air, intrigued, "We could make a few hundred
commons from that Dustie one... if you're barmy enough to deal with 'em,
that is."
As an afterthought I glanced over the graffiti. It ran from obscenities about
the Dustmen to slogans glorifying what appeared to be local gangs. One
piece of graffiti caught my eye... someone had carved the name "Pharod" on
the corpse's left arm, then slashed an "X" across it.
"Pharod?" I whispered.
As before, the zombie jerked its left arm upwards and pointed far to the
west... and downwards. I waited, stunned, until the arm fell back to its side.
"He's... under Ragpickers square?" I didn't expect an answer, though a nod
would've helped, "The guy must've burrowed deep in there. No wonder he's
so damn hard to find.
The walls of the Mortuary were rust-red. It was the shade of metal aching
with the weight of centuries, a body ever dying but never dead, ever rotting
but never renewed. The sharp fumes of formaldehyde had been rich in the
air, the floor speckled with blood and bodily fluids lazily wiped away, leaving
a grotesque blush to the stone. The shelves and tools had been as
dust-covered as the Faction’s namesake.
Here though, the Dustman architecture, of shattered bricks stitched
together with mortar, showed a new side to death. The floor was laid in a
pattern of razor-sharp stones of a mourner’s blue-gray veil. The tables and
counters were dull in the pale light of the bar, polished as they were. Where
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