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

"Oh... no." Morte whispered furiously to me. "Do NOT offend this blood,
boss... he'll dead-book you faster than you can spit."
"Should I worry about that?" I muttered out of the corner of my mouth.
The old man ignored Morte and pursed his lips a moment before he spoke
to me. "Greetings, traveler. Who might you be to enter Lothar's humble
salon without invitation?"
"You've kidnapped my friend," I growled, "Give him back. Now."
His eyelids crept up at my tone, "Kidnapped? Your friend? I have done no
such thing. Where is this friend?"
Morte spoke up. His voice sounded miserable, scared, and deferential with a
whine that that of a dog that had been kicked too many times. It was
obvious that, in Morte's opinion, this Lothar character was no one to cross.
"He means me. Look, sir, just let me go and we'll let this go. Water under the
Ditch, hey?"
"I did not give you permission to speak, skull!" Morte quailed under Lothar's
grim voice. His lip curled into a cold grimace. "Hmph. You stride into my
parlor, arrogant with chest bared. Where others grovel and plead for
supplication you have the gall to demand of me as I stand in my home. Just
for that I should tear your soul asunder and grind the last scraps of your
dying consciousness beneath my foot." He glanced at Morte, "However, the
skull you speak of has been a thorn in my side the full day it has been here.
Standard spells have been impotent in silencing the thing. It pesters me."
"Ach, sounds like th' skull all right."
"Scarred one, if you wish the skull back, you must fetch me a skull of greater
value from the catacombs below. I will not bargain for something that is
already mine. Accept or not."
"He was never yours ... or anyone's... to begin with. Your men stole him off
the streets!"
"Your ignorance is astonishing," he scoffed, "You truly know very little about
very little. Now: Fetch me another skull to replace him or say goodbye to
your friend."
465