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

We must've gone down ten, fifteen feet beneath street level when we
reached the parlor proper. Dozens of shelves lined the walls of Lothar's
home, and on each shelf sat hundreds of skulls. Many were humanoid, a few
were twisted and feral, a cross between the bestial and the demonic. I could
even pick out the angled jawlines of a few githzerai skulls.
In one corner a cauldron bubbled, and on the worktable beside it sat a batch
of severed heads that had yet to be cleaned. The fire offered little heat, and
by the time that smell of boiled death reached me it was already cold and
impotent.
"Ch-chief?" a frightened but familiar voice whimpered.
"Morte?" I scanned the shelf, and was drawn by the familiar twitch of his
hazel-gray eyes.
"Thank the Powers you're here, chief. Get me outta here."
I blinked and reached up. Damn... top shelf, I'd have to get a stool or...
"What are you doing up there?"
"Those wererat vermin nicked me and brought me here! Come on, boss...
we got to get out of here! This place is bad news!"
"Why don't you just float down?" I growled, and motioned to Dak'kon and
Annah to help me drag an adjacent divan over.
"I tried!" Morte whispered in a quiet panic, "Look, just get me down
before-"
Gray smoke drifted along the floor and in a moist crack that sounded like
splintering sinew, a withered old man stepped forward.
His face was weighed down with wrinkles, a long gray beard trailed down his
chest. Lothar's robes were the color of old blood and one hand was curled
around a curved staff rattling with several skulls. His eyes flashed with
power as he addressed Morte. "Have we visitors, skull?"
I pulled myself away from the seat and placed myself between Lothar and
the shelf.
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