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

We stood there at the bar, silently contemplating. Part of me could accept
something of the Dustmen philosophy. After all, it was part of what I was
trying to understand about myself. But I still looked forward to the taste of
another fire seed, felt good about making lives a little better for others. Life
couldn't have been as bad as the Dustmen said.
"Sere," I said, breaking the silence, "if you had truly believed in the Dustman
philosophy then your brush with the fever would not have left you with such
doubts."
Sere stared at me, then nodded slowly. "Maybe so... maybe so." She
frowned, her face wrinkling up in concentration. "I'll have to chew it over
some more."
"You should. It's no small matter."
"La, now... enough of me rattling on about my woes!" Sere stared at my
scars. "You look like you've shared a few handshakes with death yourself.
Hasn't that changed your views somewhat? Doesn't it make you appreciate
life a bit more?"
"Of course."
She nodded, taking another sip of her tea, "And well it should. Nothing
comforting about death."
I smiled. Sere seemed to be a nice woman, and trustworthy. "Well, my
brushes with death are a lot closer than those of other people. I can't seem
to die... at least, as far as I know."
Sere blinked. "Yer rattling my coffin."
"It's true."
She shook her head, her voice dropping to a murmur. "Strange are the ways
of the Planes, and I've seen too much to throw any tale out with the wash."
She studied my face. "If it's true, why does this happen?"
"All I know is I woke up in the Mortuary with no memory and covered with
enough wounds to kill me three times over."
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