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

smoke, pipeweed... it's all yellow-blankets of smoke and stinging sulfurous
gas that this Ward spits out." He gave me a gap-toothed smile.
"Pretty-pretty, hey?"
I forced a grin, and it was like smiling back at a shark. "Tell me about the
Foundry. I have a letter to deliver there."
"Centa o' the Ward, pretty much. Look for the stacks. Them Godsmen make
a buncha' things out o' iron; nothing fancy, but they work. Add to the bad
air, too."
"Godsmen?"
"The Believers. Have their kip in the Great Foundry, banging and singing and
chantin' their barmy silliness on being Powers in the next ten upon ten and a
buncha other ten lifetimes." He rolled his eyes, then spat a brown mass from
his mouth. "All's they do is suffer and slave and work... I slave twice as hard,
and no way am I going to be any sort of Power, you understand me, berk?"
He laughed hollowly.
Korur's eyebrows climbed a little when I found myself examining his meaty
frame. His hands were heavily callused, and old scars were slashed across
his arms. Those old battle wounds, however, didn't reach his face or the
bare chest that I could see... this man was skilled. "I want to be a better
warrior. Can you help me better my skills?"
"Well... What exactly do ye want training in?"
I whipped out my favored knife, "Teach me how to use daggers."
"Daggers, eh? Well... I can teach ye if ye want."
"Yes, I'd like to learn to use this weapon."
It was a solid couple of hours of practice. I adjusted my stance, learned to
grip my knife better, refined the good old gouge-twist-pull action that was
the cornerstone of knife fighting. When we were done Korur leaned back
and nodded, his duty done. "Well... nothing more I can teach ye right now.
Not unless ye've devoted yer whole life to bein' a warrior. Ye've got to
specialize in bein' a warrior if ye want to get better. Ye've not got that
devotion t' the fightin' craft. Only when ye've turned yer body into a weapon
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