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

She indicated herself and spoke again. "Suh-suh-stuhl Muhhhry." It sounded
as if her vocal cords were festering away in some soupy mess at the base of
her throat.
I looked around. Zombies shuffled back and forth, applying resins to the
broken bones of the true dead and knitting together torn shrouds. There
was a self-directed will to them, a liveliness that didn't exist among the
zombie workers of the Dustmen. Each zombie worked as if knowing their
tasks, and that meant they had to communicate somehow. I looked to Stale
Mary, "How is it that you speak to these other zombies? I cannot
understand them as I can you..."
The corpse took a step towards me, reaching her arm out to touch my flesh.
I looked down curiously, "What are you doing?"
She only moaned softly in reply, reaching out once more to touch my arm.
Despite the ravages of time, there was still some vestige of humanity left in
her gaze. I knew she meant no harm.
"Tch. I don't understand what they see in you, chief," Morte grumbled.
Stale Mary's nearly fleshless hand brushed gently against my forearm, and
she spoke. "Luhhhssnnn." With that soupy gurgle, though, the word rang
clearly in my head, like a whisper echoing within a silent chamber.
I stepped back, shocked somewhat, "How is it that I can understand you?"
I didn't hesitate when she touched me once more. "Spuhhhkkk tuuuh uhhh
yuhhhh kuhnn. Buhuuhhh mhuuusssst duhh uhhht puhhhpuhhleee."
"Can you teach me?"
She smiled, the hardened skin of her face creaking like thick leather.
"Yuhhh."
It didn't take long to learn the art of what Mary called 'Stories-Bones-Tell.'
While I knew that there were magics to call, summon, and bind the dead so
that they might be forced to speak true, this was a simpler skill, one less
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