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

the teeth extended into fangs. "Ooooooh! They change!" They shrunk down
to normal, then to fangs again, then normal... "I think I'm going to like
these."
"I'm sorry, Morte. I didn't mean you any harm."
"Oh, I'll still get you for this," Morte replied. He grinned, his teeth turning
into fangs again. "Just you wait."
I didn't like the sound of that. "Uh... revenge never helped anyone, Morte...
uh, let's go."
For the next few days I took odd jobs here and there: delivering letters,
escorting visitors, fending off thugs and gangs and selling the goods
collected. It wasn't a proud life by any means, but it was something to help
scrape us by.
The run-down flophouse we stayed in was poor shelter, and part of me was
worried that the owner would try murdering us in our sleep for our paltry
coin. Yet with Dak'kon at my side and the scars mounting on my flesh, those
weaker-willed backed away. I soon reasoned out that despite the blanket of
numerous wounds on my flesh, thugs could tell that I was inexperienced in
the ways of the city, perhaps even a little naive.
"They know your inexperience by your poise," Dak'kon had said.
At night I stayed awake most of the night as Morte snored away and
Dak'kon dozed quietly, his blade propped against his shoulder as he leaned
against the wall as if in meditation. I always dreaded that terrifying
dreamless void when my eyes closed, that wound deep inside me with its
ragged edges where something was missing. Something vital.
When fatigue finally took me into its cold embrace, it was all I could do to
keep from screaming until the feeble light of morning seeped through the
cracked windows. I sat up groggily, shivering and trying to clear my head of
that terrible black fog. Today was the day that I would enter the tomb, and I
needed some supplies. I decided to investigate a shop that we had passed
earlier, but didn’t have time to go inside.
The sign outside had said "Fell's Tattoo Parlor."
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