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

"Yeah! Mind your own!" Morte interjected.
"Who said yeh could tag along, skull?" the clink of stolen coppers dulled the
snap in her voice.
Morte clicked his tongue, "Hey, that Hamrys guy just couldn't shut up. You
couldn't leave lil' old me to endure that yammering with everyone else, can
you?"
"Th' two o' ye would make a fine pair, yeh would."
"I don't like the competition. Besides, the chief can take care of himself. And
if he can't, well... we'll sew him back together and he'll be right as rain in an
hour or so."
Annah sipped her ale. "I know when I'm bein' followed, skull. I have to. And
yeh have that glint in yer eye like a sod who wants somethin'."
"Oh I'm just wondering."
"Wonderin' about what?"
"Just wondering."
In the back of her mind, Annah contemplated gouging his eyes out. It was
possibly the only way he could hurt... that and his tongue were the only
fleshy bits left of him, a pity really. Silent, blind, bumping into the walls. She
sipped her ale silently, mulling over that nice, happy image.
"So you gonna tell the chief?"
A muscle in her cheek twitched, "About what, skull?"
"About- you know..." Morte said coyly, waggling what was left of his
eyebrows.
"No, I don't, skull. If yer gonna say somethin' spit it out, or shut up an' leave
me ta my ale already," Annah's voice softened to a mumble as she put her
lips against the rim of the mug, "E'ery minute that passes I need a lil' more
sauce in me."
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