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

what to say. "You're a tough man to track down, Pharod. I've come for
information. I've been told that you know something about me."
"Know somethin' 'bout you...?" The light in Pharod's eyes dimmed. He
studied me, mumbling slightly as his eyes flickered up and down my frame.
"Corpse...? No? Yes?" His eyes meet mine. "Ah! No..."
"Pharod? What is it?"
Pharod was studying me with a dead-even gaze. "Tisn't a mummer's fair,
corpse. No time for games, no time for Pharod to play the wheel... what are
you asking such questions for?"
"I have forgotten myself, and I was told to seek you out. That you would
know something of me," I said truthfully.
"Eh..." Pharod licked his lips; they made a rasping sound, like dry parchment
on sand. "Now who told you such a thing, corpse?"
"Well, no one told me, exactly. There were these tattoos on my back... they
told me to seek you out, if I ever forgot myself."
"Ah... so little said, so much told..." Pharod fell silent, and suddenly, I had a
feeling that Pharod was dissecting me, like a corpse on a Mortuary slab. "I
know much you would know. Much, yes. Much, indeed..." Pharod smiled
slowly, the folds of flesh on his face peeling back like a curtain.
"What do you know of me?"
Pharod licked his lips again, then settled himself upon his crutch like a
vulture. "No, no... not free, the question you ask." His pasty-white hands
tapped the edge of his crutch. "Much I can tell you, but the telling has a
cost."
I grumbled. "Go on, Pharod..."
Pharod tapped the flagstones with his crutch and sneered. "This village is
not all that lies buried beneath Ragpicker's Square."
"Yes...?"
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