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

worse in Sigil than slave trade... what makes this one so important?"
"I already told yeh what ye need t' know," she muttered, "Jes go with it."
"Is it something personal?"
Annah bristled at that, and added an edge to her walk like a cat stalking its
prey, "Ach. I wish that ol' mold-skinned gith were here ta bind yeh in his
chatter."
"Dak'kon doesn't talk much."
"No," came the hoary voice from behind us, "But I hear your words."
I was surprised that Annah didn't draw her blades. Turning around I froze. A
well-formed bruise around Dak'kon's eye had just begun turning green at
the edges, and a small cut on his cheek was beginning to dry and scab over.
He stood stiffly however, arms crossed in meditative calm.
"You... got in a fight?"
Dak'kon set his coal-black gaze upon me, rigid and keen as steel, "A...
dispute. It would be wise to know that words may set motion to blades, but
it is the blades themselves that do the harm."
"Are those pottery shards caught in your armor?"
"We will speak no more of it."
I shrugged, and flicked a clot charm to him, "In any case, we're off to free a
slave."
There was no mistaking the throng on the podium for anything but slaves.
They were glassy-eyed, outcasts of a city that heaved a fatigued sigh at the
sight of poverty and lazily brushed them into a corner. As they swayed on
aching legs and bent with slumped shoulders, a boisterous auctioneer stood
out in front of them. He was very animated and did a lot of shouting, yelling,
and stomping, carrying a flair for melodrama like a medal-lined sash and
curled his cheeks into many strange facial expressions.
"Greetings."
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