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

"Look, Mantuok..." I said carefully, "All I'm doing is trading one skull for
another. Getting a friend of mine back."
"I do not give a whit for you or your friend!"
I reached into my pack and grabbed Soego's head by the mane of hair. Part
of me expected it to pull out, loosened by the decay, but while it slid a little
in my fingers the grip was still firm, "Take it to your master. Just know that
I'm leaving the moment I get Morte back... you can work under Lothar all
you want. I'm not interested in playing fetch-servant under that old
graybeard's heel."
I tossed it to him. Mantuok rolled the head in his paws and sniffed at it
critically. "Many, many places in catacombs, biped, no? Many places where
one may be walled in for all eternity and screams are never heard. To one of
those places shall you be taken and left to suffer." He turned to his fellow
wererats. "Stab the biped until he falls. Take his corpse to the catacombs
and bury him alive."
My eyes widened, "But- I am not trying to usurp your place here! Lothar has
no need of me!"
Mantuok's squealing cackle pierced my ears, "Stupid manling. Being Lothar's
trusted hand was only part of the matter. I kill you regardless."
"But- why?!"
His fangs were long and yellow, and a slim tongue flicked out to wet his
muzzle, "Because I hate the way you smell."
"You diseased wretch!" I growled. Annah's punch-daggers snapped into her
hands, Dak'kon's blade was drawn with the soft sound of silk against steel.
"It is no disease!" Mantuok laughed as the wererats began to surround us,
"It is a blessing! I am far greater than you, a thing more a corpse than a
man!"
"As my betters," I sneered, beginning to goad him, "I suppose it is your
privilege to squat in sewers, feast on filth and the occasional deader to stay
alive, and dress in resplendent rags with your naked scaly tails dragging in
486