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

"He's a friend, Annah."
"E's obnoxious, talks too much."
"Morte is one who endures well in the dance of blades," Dak'kon said firmly.
"Oh fine, so we lose a damage sponge, aye? Yeh're too eager to play
pincushion anyways, yeh barmy sod."
I tossed the merchant a couple coppers and bit into the fruit. Its flesh was
slightly tart, with a sweetness that seemed to fairly glow as the juices
trickled over my tongue. It alleviated my dour mood just a bit, "Morte has
answers... and I want to know why he's been lying to me."
Annah huffed. Dak'kon said nothing.
As soon as I had crawled out of that ancient crypt I had looked for a mirror.
Craning my neck and twisting a little I had taken a look at the tattoos on my
back for myself. While the marks were there and deeply-etched, the mass of
scars and burns had rendered many of the words nigh-unreadable, unless
one knew what the message had said in the first place. No wonder Annah
and Dak'kon had said nothing about the grim instructions and the dire
warning that followed. They couldn't have read it easily.
Don't trust the skull.
It was certain that Morte had read that message off of me before. It was
possible that he was a treacherous mole. I had put off the question for far
too long out of simple sentiment. The thought of having to deal with him if
he betrayed me was... unpalatable.
I was growing too fond of the little guy.
"Take a care, cutter," Annah mumbled, pushing close to me. I could barely
hear her over the noise of the crowd, "Th' Lower Ward may be more
peaceable 'an th' Hive, but yeh might be better off not stirrin' up th' trouble
yeh do when those Hardheads are about."
"Hardheads?"
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