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

was a humble shadow of faith here that spurred the dead as much as faith
bolstered the living.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" a skeleton chittered to me as he walked past with an
armful of scrolls.
"Creepy, more like. I'd sooner see a Dustie ballroom dance in the Mortuary
than one in this dump," Morte ducked down and cocked his head in an
attempt to look up a passing zombie's skirt, "Though I wouldn't mind being
proven wrong."
"But look around, Morte," I gestured, "We're talking about a fledgling
civilization born from death. They're a people who refused to die and in the
name of duty banded together to protect the ones that weren't strong
enough to do so." As we wandered down the halls skeletons and zombies
walked and shuffled about, busy at their tasks, deep in thought. Occasionally
I heard a few ghouls snarling about better protection against the incursion
of cranium rats. It was no metropolis, but the Dead Nations were thriving,
"Doesn't that amaze you at least a little?"
"Eh," Morte rolled his eyes dismissively, "I know you're still kinda green
here, chief, but trust me. Once you've seen one necropolis of undead
standing guard over an ancient and forbidden maze of catacombs you've
seen... 'em... all..." his speech slowed down as a female zombie who still had
most of her long, white hair shambled past. "Excuse me."
I sighed and walked ahead. Whatever he said to her, it earned him a smack
across the jaw which sent him flying into a pile of rags. "Wooo! Someone call
the mortician! We've got a live one here!"
"'Mawgry?' Nay... 'anhungry?' Nay..." a nearby skeleton muttered to itself,
occasionally pausing to scratch its skull. It was old enough so that no meat
was left on its bones... only a few colored rags.
"Greetings..."
It nodded a greeting in return, but didn't reply.
"I was hoping you could tell me where I could find the Silent King..."
The skeleton looked up at me and grunted in frustration. "Not now! Forgive
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