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

waved her hand around the bar. "Look around. What do your eyes tell you?"
I cocked my head, "A bunch of fun-loving Dustmen, drinking happily and
conversing merrily, celebrating life to its fullest."
"You've got a clever tongue there, boy... mayhap your tongue is cleverer
than you are?" Sere squinted at me, then snorted. "That'd explain the
scars."
I looked her in the eye, ""But it doesn't explain why a Dustman is standing
here ridiculing other Dustmen. Care to answer that one? Are you a
Dustman?"
"A Dustman? I s'pose." Sere sniffed. "Tchhhh. I've seen enough sand pass
through the hourglass while wearing these robes. This body's almost ready
to pay the ferryman." She chuckled, but there wasn't much mirth in it.
"Are you afraid of dying?"
"'Course I am, boy! Who isn't?" She frowned and glanced around. The words
didn't prick any other Dustman's ears. Perhaps there was some sort of ward
after all, "Well, except Dustman. They're not afraid because they've been
swallowing so much of their own bat droppings over the decades they've
blinded themselves into thinking that death is some kind of 'release.'
Tccchhh."
"You don't sound much like a Dustman."
She shrugged. "I guess the Dustman robes don't fit me as well as they used
to."
"So what sparked this crisis of faith?"
She shrugged. "Life, I s'pose. It... eh..." She frowned. "Ha! Never you mind. I
won't bore you with the niggling details."
"I'd like to know, actually," I said with a smile.
"Oh, would you?" She looked at me skeptically. "Tchhhh. How old you take
me for, boy?"
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