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

mumbled to herself. "Marta, how dids he do that? No glimmer, no glimmer."
Morte rolled his eyes "This gravebait's blind and near-deaf."
Marta was still mumbling to herself, something about corpses and gratitude,
which I didn't quite catch.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Marta, dids this one asks whose I was? Aye, he did, he did..." She started
humming. "Nobody but mine, I am Marta, Marta the Seamstress...
hmnnnn... Mar-ta - the - Seam - Stress... Mar-ta - the - Seam - Stress..." She
turned away, back to the corpse, singing her name to herself.
"What are you doing?"
Marta turned back to the corpse with a huff. "I'm trying ta gets this berk to
give up his stitchies and his teethies, and he isn't recoop-erating, no, no..."
She wagged her finger, as if lecturing a small child. "Stubborn as stone, isn't
he, Marta?" She pouted. "Yes, yes, he is..."
I raised an eyebrow, "Stitchies... and teethies? What are you talking about?"
"Gotta pulls the stitchies out, the teethies... eh, Marta, perhaps you could
gives me a hand... I have beens giving you a hand, old battie... no needs to
take that tone with me... pulling out the stitchies and teethies, yes. And the
thingies inside."
"Thingies inside?"
Morte floated over the corpse she was working on, looking over the breaks
and incisions, "I think she means organs. I hope she means organs."
"Thingies," Marta corrected.
Morte turned to Marta. "Yes, 'thingies.'" He then turned to me. "It's all
semantics."
The crone's handiwork was messy, unlike the quick, graceful slices and
stichings of Ei-Vene back at the Mortuary. "Marta, why are you pulling out
the corpse's teeth and stitches?"
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