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

A charred metal tang curled my tongue with each breath I took. I coughed...
it seemed as if the filth in the air tested even my immortal constitution.
While the folk were better-dressed than the poor sods in the Hive and real
money clinked in none-too-limp purses, a dreary air still hung over the
populace. Every other Sigilian's hands were rough and scraped, their skin
was sickly. It was a choice between poverty and a short, sickly, and
marginally prosperous life.
For some reason, I found myself thinking back to how good the soup was in
the Gatehouse of the Bleak Cabal.
A merchant strode past, his horse trotting behind him pulling a cart laden
with baskets of fruit. An artisan on the corner coughed into a rag and spat a
thick wad into the street. An older man, decked in elegant robes blinked at
me, his eyes bright and smile warm. He bowed slightly, and I approached.
"Good day, cutter. I am Sebastion, how may I serve you?"
I shook his hand, "Greetings."
"Greetings to you as well, cutter..." He seemed distracted as he looked over
my scars. His eyes traveled along them and his eyebrows arched in surprise.
He returned his gaze to me. "I was about to ask what I could do for you, but
there is no need. I think I see why you came to see me, cutter."
"So you're the man who healed Cinder. Can help me with these scars also?"
He smiled at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps, cutter, perhaps." He
leaned forward and began to examine my scars carefully. He ran a finger
along several of them, mumbling to himself. Finally he looked up at me.
"Yes, cutter, I can help you. I cannot cure you, but I can alleviate the worst of
your... condition."
"And your price?"
"Ah, yes... the price." He began stroking his chin and stared at me. I got the
impression I are being weighed somehow, like a slab of meat. "I have a job
that I think you could perform."
I nodded, "Go on."
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