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

people, an iron-thorned air about the populace that had been tempered into
them from a harsh, unloving life.
The spike of obsidian stone that caught my eye stirred something in me. It
seemed familiar, like an echo of a forgotten dream. Even from a distance I
could tell the surface was marred with countless small scratches, but still it
glistened somehow in the sickly noontime light.
I eyed the Dustmen at the entrance to the monument warily. Even though I
was no longer on their territory, and even though they were focused on
their chanting, I needed to be careful around them. I was an abomination to
them. If there was one thing to remember, it might as well be that.
“Oooommmmmm...”
“The True Death awaits...”
“We all seek solace in final rest...”
And there it stood, jutting from the ground, a black stone dagger veined
with white and gray and tattooed with countless names. I stepped closer,
reading a few. Mishar Akelrun, Pathfinder Garen, Sumali, Fair Farallah,
Xixvada the Weeping. Nothing. None of the names etched into the stone
meant anything to me. I groaned, cracking my forehead against the cold
obsidian.
Two things came about from the moronic act. First, it hurt like the Nine
Hells.
Second, a voice piped up behind me, “Hideous, isn’t it?”
I looked up to face a man of middle height and years. He was stout, with a
thick, bullish neck. His shoulders were hunched, as if a great weight were
pressing down on them, and he stared at the monument impatiently.
“I dunno, I think it catches the eye,” Morte idly floated about, reading
names from the surrounding walls, “Kinda like when an inch-long splinter
lodges in someone’s bum.”
“What is it?”
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