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

Dustman might've attributed it to a misguided instinct, or a spark of
misguided empathy that still smoldered like a slowly-dying coal. The undead
here saw themselves in their silent brethren, and Stale Mary was the
grandmother that tied together all the shambling children.
Of course, some weren't quite so agreeable.
As I walked past, the rot-stink of the ancient-looking ghoul-woman was
nauseating, even from a distance. Her gray-green skin was infested with
tomb rot and festering sores, and her fingers, each capped by a long, curved
talon, were covered in dried blood and filth. Her hair, thick with scuttling
insects and worms, hung to her knees. It hid nearly all her face in shadow,
save for a fanged, feral grin and a lolling gray tongue.
"Hsssst. What have we here? Some pretty meat, aye, a little tough gristle?
Sharpen me teeth on yer bone and grow fat on yer marrow, hmmm?
Hsssst."
"Damn. What is with you, chief? Why is it you're suddenly a blood with the
ladies and I'm stuck all by my lonesome 'ere?"
I ignored Morte, "You must be Acaste."
"I don't have to be anything to ye, meat and bones," she hissed, "Ye watch
yer tone with me, or no one will find ye in one piece again. Now, who are ye
to come before me like a feast? Answer Acaste."
I began to step away, but the other ghouls at her side were slavering like
bulldogs. If I ran now it might just spark that instinct to give chase. "I am...
Adahn," I lied.
"Aaaadahn..." She drew her long, gray tongue slowly across her lips,
yellowish drool trickling from the corners of her mouth. "Yes..."
"I don't suppose you could tell me a little about yourself."
"Go! Pester Acaste while ye still live, meat! Ask!"
"What are you doing here?"
Her chuckle came out like a hiss, "We fight, win and feed. Blooded ones such
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