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

manage was a withered croak.
I searched my pouch. I knew I had a rag in here that could be used for a
handkerchief. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
"I..." His voice was so hoarse that it sounded like he had been without water
for days. As I watched, a tear trickled down his face. "I... am a Crier of
Es-Annon."
I tugged out a scrap of cloth, but it was rough and oil-stained. No good. I
sighed and looked up at the man. "Es-Annon? Who is that?"
"Wh... Who is Es-Annon?!" The man threw back his head and gave a rasping
laugh; it sounded brutal and defeated. "Es-Annon... it is not a man, but a
city!"
"Why do you cry for a city?"
His voice was hoarse. "We cry its name because Es-Annon must not be
forgotten. All the Criers of Es-Annon carry this burden."
"You mourn a city? Why do you do such a thing?"
"Because its name is all that remains. Its avenues of light, its great spiraling
parks... when it was laid waste and reduced to memory, only three-score of
its people survived. It was our duty to see that its name was remembered
across the Planes. Many Criers of Es-Annon have died for the sake of
remembering... many..."
The man was mad with grief. "If it places you and the others at risk, why
don't you stop?"
He shook his head, fat tears crawling down his cheeks even as he spoke.
"The tears I shed, the dust that cloaks me... these things are as nothing
compared to what awaits should I give up my sacred burden. We MUST see
to it that its name is remembered. We are living memorials to its passage."
"If that's so, then what happens if you all die?"
A fresh tear sprang to the Crier's eye. Even his dust-caked face couldn't
disguise his look of despair. "I do not KNOW. We Criers of Es-Annon cannot
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