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

"All right, here's what it is: There's a reason the Drowned Nations are called
that. There's a magic bottle that never stops its flow, a decanter, hidden in
the Drowned Nations catacombs. You get that, and you got all the fresh
water you'll ever need."
"You mean this one?" I pulled it from my pack, holding it before his dead,
motionless eyes.
"Wha- oh cripes. I'm sorry I can't offer you anything else to thank you...
wait! Someone down here might know how to get the command word... a
guy by the name of-"
"Glyve? Face in the wall, speaks like he's got a mouth full of molasses?"
"Powers above, I feel so useless."
I shook my head, "No. I needed to be reminded that I still have a few things
to do here. Thanks, Chad. Rest in peace."
With that I felt his spirit fade, passing into the planes beyond. If I had to I
could always drag up the memories from his bones, but there was no need
for that now.
"'Things to do here?' Unless there's a mammy bar and about ten other ways
to fulfill my eleven-plus vices we're getting the frickin' hell out of Sigil's
arse-hole!"
"We have some obligations, Morte."
Such as revenge against a certain vargouille swarm that had killed me
earlier.
By now the population must've been decimated. Those few scattered pests
would have to kill a lot more Buried Villagers to become a real threat again.
Hopefully I could warn those vultures away by telling them that the Dead
Nations protected these warrens.
I sifted through the scattered bones of the dozens of adventurers that
must've been slain here. Most of their goods were damaged, but an
exquisite pair of punch-daggers still looked good.
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