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

though the latter was uncooked. Yech.
Soego nodded and looked at the tray. He seemed to be eyeing the rat, half
in disgust, half in yearning. "Yes, a unique civilization of sentient undead.
Such a thing is unusual, even in Sigil. But nonetheless an abomination in
Dustman doctrine." He swallowed and turns away from the tray, "Passion
ties them to this false life. I hope I can teach them to forsake these passions
and leave this false life behind and reach the True Death."
I knocked a piece of the bread against the woodwork and the echoing cracks
emphasized my words, "Why have I been made a prisoner here?"
"I do not know. Ask some of the 'citizens,' here."
I nodded, "Perhaps I shall. After we rest up, that is."
Soego nodded, "I offer some advice before you rest. Do not attack any of the
undead here in the catacombs; they will not harm you so long as you remain
peaceful. Should you prove hostile they will defend themselves, and there
are... many of them."
"Thanks."
Over the next few days we lay back in rest, recovering from the near-fatal
damage we suffered in our explorations. When Dak'kon wasn't meditating
he practiced the graceful, fluid forms with his blade with the sureness and
knowing of a master. Morte flirted with a few of the zombies for a few
hours, but seeing as how many were uninterested in reciprocating (indeed,
they could do little to communicate aside from unintelligible groans) he
quickly became bored and spent most of his time chattering and pestering
me.
Granted, his presence made our detainment bearable, but it was distracting
when I was trying to focus on studying the items we had collected. And
indeed, on the second day I made a startling discovery.
The severed arm we plucked from the corpse in the midden heap was my
own.
The gray pallor and the mass of scars should've given it away, as well as the
haunting familiarity I felt for the thing. There was no way to tell how long it
272