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

the Mortuary was the wet crimson slosh of gore on cold rusted slabs, the
Gathering Dust Bar was the icy touch of the grave. The air was chill and dry,
moreso than the Mortuary itself, if that was possible. Again that shiver
crawled up my spine.
Perhaps I simply needed one of those thick gray robes.
The Dustmen here sat quietly at their tables. Those few that were talking
hunched over their plain clay cups and muttered in hushed tones. For some
reason the air seemed thicker, muting noises to a dull whisper. An
enchantment, perhaps, to protect the peace and solitude of the bar patrons.
Much like in the Mortuary, zombies served the Dustmen here. With
shuffling, awkward steps they meandered back and forth, laying down cups
with fingers worn down to bone and dusting tables until they were spotless.
A spindle-thin man in dirty black robes sat at one table. His stiff black hair
sprang forth from his skull like a crown of spikes, and his leper-white skin
was drawn sharply across his skull. He was frowning into his drink and
mumbling to himself.
Might as well start with him, "Greetings."
The Dustman looked up, blinked once, then looked me up and down,
studying me. As he gave me the once-over, he took one of his spiked locks
and pointed at himself with it. "Norochj. Initiate. Dustman. Guard."
I jerked a thumb towards the entrance, "I'm here about the posting
outside."
The Dustman looked me up and down again. "Many troubles have I. Help
can you. A mausoleum awakes, the dead walk, the dead disturbed, the
Dustmen disturbed. Find out what disturbs the undead, and copper coins
will I pay."
Anything that pays the bills. "Very well. Where is this mausoleum?"
Norochj nodded. "Mausoleum by Dustman memorial. Go north and west
from black monument, go to arch and a semi-circle over your heart with this
finger this make." He wiggled the index finger on his right hand. "To the
mausoleum, go you will."
139