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

Chapter 26
The next day in Ragpicker’s Square brought with it a malodorous encounter
the likes of which I'd never expected.
Now, the Hive was far from being all blossoms and daisies. The air had a
sulfurous char to it, thickened with the grating smell of burned oil and sour,
unwashed flesh. The Hive was the festering wound of Sigil, decaying so that
it was collapsing in on itself despite the efforts of the Dabus to stitch it
together. The smell was of the rankled pus of the city, moldering beneath a
dirty bandage.
But this...
Dak'kon, in his quiet, cool manner had recommended that we ask the
slummier characters in Sigil about Pharod.
"One must know the ways of a rat to find another."
Dak'kon was smooth yet iron-hard: a sword sheathed in silk.
A man had squirreled himself into a corner, glancing furtively at the
passer-by. The man was looking at us with a strange, bug-eyed stare. His
eyes were huge... so huge they looked ready to pop out of his sockets and
roll across the cobblestones. He nodded eagerly as we approached, bobbing
his head like a bird. As we neared him, we were suddenly greeted with the
smell of urine and feces. I could've cut it with a knife and buttered my toast
with it.
I tried not to breathe through my nose. "Greetings."
"Phaugh!" Morte spat, "Sometimes I think you relish in wallowing about this
tripe, chief. This guy smells worse than a burst boil on a fiend's arse."
I breathed in short puffs. It helped, a bit, "You don't have a nose, Morte.
How can you smell anything?"
Morte spat again, gagging, "Chief, I can taste it."
The man sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, then opened his mouth to
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