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

Pharod smiled, greedily. "Not all the dead that goes to the Mortuary gate is
fed to the furnace, corpse. The Dusties bury some of the dead in the city's
bowels. Under the village... so near, so close... is such a place. I would have
been a fool not to see opportunities..."
Worse than a vulture. A defiler of graves, one who disturbed the dead. Not
even to pry the gold from their teeth or steal the gems interred with them,
but to pick the bodies from their resting places and sell their bones like
scrap. "So you rob the catacombs of the dead the Dustmen placed there, sell
them back to the Dustmen and they bury them again?"
Pharod nodded, then chuckled lightly -- the sound was like shifting sand.
"These catacombs are as deep as a Dustie's pockets."
"And as deep as the greed of man," I said, disgusted.
"Oh, yes..." Pharod sneered. "And the greed of man is something that shall
always be counted upon when naught else is left, eh?"
Having satisfied my curiosity on all points except those that were of
importance to me, I left Pharod alone to his shadowed throne.
Chapter 31
I decided to spend the night in the Buried Village, knowing that Marta would
allow me to sleep in her hovel. Next day was soon enough to start on
Pharod’s quest. Besides, dying is not something one recovers from in an
afternoon.
At the gate on the edge of the village was a massive human, dressed in
castoff, patchwork clothing and reeking of old ale. He was truly huge - it was
obvious he was chosen for this job for his brawn, not his brains. "What d'ya
want?"
A repulsive man. Clever. Devious. But most of all repulsive. The mood set by
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