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

palm. Murmuring a complex chant, he drew an arcane sigil in the puddle.
Where his finger traced the liquid the pool began to glow, bubbling bright
and violet. With a burst the magic was released, and traces of the stuff
flooded into my flesh. My skin bubbled, and a hot burning itch flowed
through my body as I felt wounds knit shut and my scars recede. I gasped,
licked my newly-regrown lips.
"It is done, cutter. Once again I thank you." Sebastion bowed deeply to me.
I looked at my body in wonder. The gray pallor remained, but many of the
puckers of twisted flesh had receded, if they hadn't disappeared entirely.
"Thank you and farewell, Sebastion."
~~~~~
The ladle clacked against the walls of the cauldron as it stirred the
plague-yellow broth. It was thick and opaque, a diseased green with nary a
single bubble marring its surface.
"See how easily the flesh falls from the bone?" the old man rasped. His
fingernails were long and white, and delicately gripped the handle of the
ladle. Pulling it up, he scooped out a freshly-cleaned skull. The last traces of
once-petrified meat sloughed off, dribbling back into the vile brew like
melting butter.
Morte whimpered and shivered in his cage.
"Most of my prized pieces do not need eyes to see, nor a tongue to speak
with. Can I say the same of you?"
"P-p-please... just let me go." Morte braced himself for the pain, like that
bolt of blinding agony that left him spinning on the ground and screaming
until the world went black. It was the first and last time he mouthed off
here. Yet the old man barely raised his head as he touched the skull with the
tip of one talon.
"Awaken, skull, for you now bear my mark now and forevermore. Speak,
else I will call upon the Whispering Chorus and the Rattling Legion to whip
your shade until the Planes grind to dust..."
The skull wheezed, as if taking its first breath. Age-yellowed teeth clacked.
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