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

A quick word with Baen the Sender was all that was needed to assure that
the message was relayed, earning me another handful of coins, as well as
the urge to spend it.
Mebbeth furrowed her eyebrows as I shuffled into her hut in that sorry
state: flesh torn and only beginning to knit together, bloodstained and
brutish. "Tch, what happened t' ye, child?"
I had coughed up the last bit of blood right outside Ragpicker's square, but
my voice still creaked, "A fight with local thugs. A lot of them."
She shook her head. "Very well, then," and reached for one of the dried
herbs at her belt. Mebbeth snapped it off at the stalk, then ground it in her
callused palms. Small wisps of dust and pollen rose from her hands. She
filled the air with her chanting, and blew the dust in the air.
I sighed as her soothing magic settled through me, easing away my wounds
and bleeding the nausea from me. Words could never convey how
refreshing it felt. Morte sneezed.
"Thanks, Mebbeth."
She scowled, "I ought t' slap ye, running around so irresponsibly. I warned ye
t' be careful, aye?"
I straightened up defensively, "I didn't abuse my training, Mebbeth. Didn't
even get a chance, though it's not like I would."
She scoffed, "The Art conveys wisdom and power more than just a wiggle o'
fingers and a burst 'o flame, boy. Best remember that."
I nodded humbly, "Do you have any spells and charms I might buy?"
When I was done poking about her wares, Mebbeth practically forced us to
sleep the night. I took this as an opportunity to study, memorizing the spells
she had given me.
In the morning, we left to buy whatever else we could to finish the task
ahead of us, selling the copper jewelry I had lifted from the corpses of the
thugs I had killed. There was no honor or pride in living like a vulture, but
necessity drove me to it. I wasn't very proud of the new bulging weight of
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