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

The wrinkles in her face ran deep, and her skin had grown pale and blotched
with age, "Old."
She snorted. "Well, you're wrong. I'm really old. Now, I've spent most of my
long years teaching Dustmen. I've seen many Dustmen whelps grow within
our order, taught them the ways of the faction, kept the faith, preached the
tenets of the faction..." She frowned. "...and so on and so on. No questions.
No doubt. This life was merely an antechamber that led to the True Death."
"What happened?"
"Well... a half-month back, I went sick with the fever." She sighed. "I thought
it was the end. It... eh, it rattled my cage."
"How?"
Her face became as stone. "There's something about having your faction
members circle around your deathbed like a pack of pale-faced ghouls,
nodding and agreeing that your suffering and dying is all for the best. 'Oh,
Sere is so fortunate! She shall soon be relieved of the burden of life!' Burden
of Life? That's when it struck me..."
She paused to take a sip from her cup. "There's something..." A queer
expression came over her features. "...addled about not appreciating your
life. The Dustmen keep saying that life is misery and suffering... is it? That
we should be happy to pass on into oblivion... should we?" She shook her
head. "Questions, questions... and precious few answers."
"It doesn't sound like you believe in the Dustmen philosophy anymore."
"I suppose I have got a swarm of doubts all buzzing in my skull." She rubbed
her temples. "Hard to get them all to be quiet sometimes. They need to be
fed some answers, and I haven't got them all worked out yet."
"What will you do?"
"To be square, boy, I don't know." Sere sighed. "That's the problem with
doubt. I can't even trust that what I'm feeling is true, or if I'm scared of
death only because of my brush with the fever, or even what I should do. Is
this a passing thing? I don't know."
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