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

I turned to face the speaker. His skin was a moldy green, eyes slitted and
yellow. The man’s features were sharp and distorted, almost monstrous,
and the fierce horned helmet was adorned with an array of tribal charms
and a small helmeted symbol on the front. Despite this, however, there was
a kindness in his eyes, and a hint of the same madness that I had seen in a
hundred other faces here.
He eyed my scars, “Come in, fellow. We’ll give you a place to sleep and a hot
meal. The Bleak Cabal will treat you better than the other denizens of the
city have.”
I smiled, “Thank you kindly, sir, but I can take care of myself.”
The man gave a muted chuckle, but there was no real humor in it, “I know a
Clueless when I see one, cutter. And I recognize good men, too. You and
your companion can be my guest, even if just for tonight. My name’s Lhar,
Factol of the Bleak Cabal.”
Factol. The word was a title of some sort, probably important, but Lhar
tossed it to me as if it were a scrap of a word no different than any other.
“You’re a kitten in a den of lions, Clueless,” Lhar continued as we walked
through the double doors to one of the wings, “most of the people in that
courtyard can fend off the dangers of the city at night far better than you
can. No offense meant, of course, you look to be someone who’s survived
his fair share of dangers.”
“Not as often as I’d like, I suspect,” I added dryly.
“Let me guess. We sit through a one-hour presentation and get a brochure
before we get to the grub.”
The corners of my lips twitched in a half-smile, “Do you even need to eat,
Morte? I mean, well...”
“You sure know how to rub it in, chief.”
Lhar chuckled again. It was an empty sound, “Aaah this is a nice change.
Most of the charges combined aren’t nearly as lively as you two. And no, our
faction doesn’t usually preach, unless you’re willing to listen.”
60