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

Morte sighed, "All right. If the gith is gonna stay I might as well too."
I nodded, "Good. I'll be right back."
Interlude
"I do so envy the Nameless One," Scii murmurs, "possessing a bottle whose
stopper holds back endless waters. One could change a world with such a
thing... found a new kingdom fat with water and wealth. Draw together the
largest city ever built on the dunes. Drown the Sea of Silt and plant a wealth
of grasslands in its place. Oh I have dreamed of such things, I have..."
"Aye, aye, yer home world sucks donkey teats get on wit' it
alreaAIEEEEEEEEEEE!" a solid thunk accompanies G'mir's squeal of shock as
an obsidian spear buries itself into the wood of the table where his boot was
just a moment ago.
"I did warn you," Scii-tavakis smiles, "On my world, it is also quite rude to
interrupt a telling."
"You- YOU MADWOMAN!" the dwarf screams, kicking aside the spear. The
shrill cry that booms through the high-ceilinged tavern seems much too loud
for a creature of such small stature and lung capacity. Yet launching his
three-foot-high bulk at the stage, G'mir the Midget Dwarf swings his axe,
red-faced with the heat of insane fury roiling through him.
It takes three able-bodied men and a pixie just to slow him down, and a
bariur receives a swift kick in the face for snatching away G'mir's axe. How
such a squat creature could leap high enough to do so is a mystery in itself.
Patrons leap from their seats: some shouting encouragement, others
demanding the dwarf be beaten or killed so that the story could continue.
In the background Oudilin plucks frantically at the strings of his lyre in
bizarre contrast to the soothing bard-song he is attempting. Mikon screams
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