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

necromancer would do with the entrails of an immortal? Actually, I didn't
want to think about it.
This damn ring had better be worth it.
Outside I took a moment to gaze at my surroundings. Floor to ceiling, what
once was a warren of ancient garbage carved like the tunnels of a termite
became a cavernous village. Not a single brick of the place looked to fit
cleanly atop another. Rather, the buildings had been cobbled together with
anything that could be scavenged: rotting, mismatched planks, patchwork
and stained tarps. And if the unwashed denizens of the Hive were grubby,
the people of what I came to know as the Buried Village didn't even have
the dignity of walking the streets above. This was a village of vultures.
A ragged man walked past, clad in patchwork clothes. He reeked of smoke
and trash, and had a yellowish cast to his skin. I waved to him, "Pardon."
He looked askew at me as I approached, "What d'ya want from me, cutter?"
"Just the answers to some questions... who are you?"
The villager shook his head, "Ain't important, cutter. Slipped 'twixt the
cracks too long ago - or maybe that was me da. One way or another, m'just
another one tryin' to make a living any way I can."
"Well, I had some other questions..."
His voice grew slightly pitched in annoyance, "Make it fast, cutter. I got
mouths t' feed."
"What are you doing?"
"Tryin' to make a living. What's it look like? Only I keep gettin' asked
questions, and it's stoppin' me from that. You done yet?"
I said my apologies and went on my way.
Some of the villagers seemed to have a better lot in existence. Fortune was
tough meat to find when living off the scraps of others. One woman with a
lined face and decked in drab clothing looked off into the distance from
where she stood. Her eyes were faraway, and there seemed to be a new
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