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

nails to dig into my skin. Dak'kon was busy examining the wares, Morte
looked away, probably embarrassed upon seeing Annah's terror. I looked
down at her, gentle but firm, like a man soothing a frightened girl, "Annah,
no harm will come to you while I'm here -- I promise. I just want to speak to
him for a moment."
For a minute, Annah just looked at me. Then, something in my gaze seemed
to calm her, and her grip loosened even as she steeled herself. "I donnae
why I..." She shook her head. "Go on, then, talk ta him! I donnae care!"
There was an undercurrent of fear in her voice, but that rare moment of
vulnerability was gone.
Fell waited patiently, his hands tucked into his sleeves. A series of symbols
materialized above his head, then dissipated and a question mark appeared.
I could read rebusspeak well enough, though it curdled my eyes and tested
my brains. My vision in that orbit was still blurry, however.
"Morte, can you translate for me?"
He turned in the air, "What? why me?"
"Because I've only got one good eye right now and my head's spinning. I'd
appreciate the help."
Morte scoffed. "I'd sooner be strained through a tanar'ri's bowels than
unravel what these floating goat-heads are trying to say. You want a
translator?" He nods at Dak'kon. "Get holier-than-thou-and-twice-as-silent
to translate."
I grumbled, "Dak'kon?"
He nodded.
"Ask him if he did the tattoos on this dismembered arm I found."
I unwrapped the petrified hunk from the butcher paper I had packed it in. A
mass of scars crisscrossing the pallid gray skin seemed to mimic my own.
Time and dessication had rendered it slightly withered, yet heavy and dense
with immortal flesh.
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