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

in those cold eye sockets dulled his regal edge. Perhaps he'd felt the same
temptation before.
"Greetings, Hargrimm. We seek your aid."
His eyes seemed displeased at my return, but he forced his voice to sound
sincere. "Thou hast returned. And to what purpose, I ask? There is nothing
for thee in the Dead Nations."
"We are in need of a skull. One that is unique, its history and life of value
above that of the common citizen."
Hargrimm's finger bones tightened on his staff just a little, "I care not what
thy purposes are, but this one will not allow the desecration of placid graves
for thy selfish purposes."
"I have to do so to save a friend. The chattering skull, remember? One of
your own."
"Dost thou speak of the one who vexed the fair female zombies of our
nation? The one who pestered them as they toiled and invaded their skirts
with greedy eyes and a slavering tongue?"
"Oh good. You do remember."
The crack of the staff against the tile sent a thundering boom through the
halls, "Thou hast done much for the good of our great nation, Nameless
One, but such is not an excuse to commit a crime against the heart of the
Dead Nations!"
I bowed, somewhat abashed, "I'm sorry, Hargrimm. I know it was much to
ask... I'll leave you to your duties now."
"What now?" Dak'kon said, looking up at me.
"Well. Now all that's left is Stale Mary. Unless you'd like to try talking to the
Silent King again."
When you watch the elderly walk the streets, backs hunched and faces
sagging, you know they have little time left. Each old crone was a withered
flower waiting to shed its last petal, and any day you'd expect to hear word
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