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

For the most part the denizens of the Hive brushed me aside or ignored me.
There were few kind words traded in a dilapidated warren as this. This
wasn’t to say the citizens were unfriendly, most were simply plagued
enough by their own troubles without having to worry about a scarred,
nameless stranger and his smart-mouthed skull. A few mentioned the
madwoman running about, a Clueless who had gotten lost, whatever that
meant. I just knew that I had to find her.
Those less helpful threatened to gut me.
One old woman practically spat in my face as I tried to get my bearings.
She screeched about her lost husband, her son, and both daughters, raving
madly before she shoved me aside and stomped off in a fine old temper.
There was loss about her, I could smell it.
In every corner of the Hive there was pain. There was the tender sorrow of
lost youth and loves. There was the harsh tang of hopelessness. There was
the oppressive shadow of death. Death and decay saturated the air and the
dust; it was planted with each brick and whispered with each breath.
What is that old saying, again? Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to
drink?
Swamped in the rough grime of the Hive, one man in colorful clean robes of
blue and violet stood out like a lantern at midnight. He wandered about in a
confused daze, frustration carving runnels in his face. I approached him,
seeing perhaps a kindred spirit lost in this confusing city.
As I approached, he looked up hopefully and called out in a high voice:
“Craddock... good sir?”
“What?” I felt like I was punched in the gut. Was this my name?
“Eh...” His hopeful expression died as he studied my face, and my own hope
wilted with it. “A thousand apologies, good sir, if I have given offense.” He
gave a slight bow. “I am called Baen the Sender, third child of Dai'Baen the
Sender. I am one of the many runners in the employ of the House of
Senders.”
I smiled nonetheless. It was terrifically refreshing to see someone carry
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