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

linking one eye, then the other to clear my vision. For the moment I
allowed Morte to lead the way as we meandered about the city. He led us to
the shade of a building.
I should’ve expected this.
The harlot was a tired-looking woman dressed in a tight leather bodice and
leggings. The odor of cheap perfume surrounded her like a cloud, and her
face was covered with a mask of crude make-up. She smiled as she saw us
approach. “Why doncha stay and chat wit’ me a bit, love?”
“Morte...” I snarled out the side of my mouth.
The woman looked coyly at me and shifting her weight, placing both hands
on her broad hips. “Now ye look ta be a blood who's lost something.
Mayhap I can help ye find it, cutter?” She smiled slightly.
Morte piped up eagerly, “What good fortune! We probably lost what we're
looking for back at your kip, miss.”
“All I’m missing is a journal, madam,” I said dryly.
“Eh?” She seemed confused. “What’re ye about?”
If I was going to talk to the odd and outcast of the city, I might as well start
here. I changed the tone of my voice, gave a smile light enough that it
couldn’t have been mistaken for that of a lecher, “Actually, I’m not missing
anything, though I do need some information.”
Morte scoffed.
“I’m not a tout...” She frowned with a pout, then rubbed two fingers
together. “Unless ye’ve got something ta pay fer my time.”
I leaned in close, spreading my arms a bit, giving a confident, friendly grin.
“How much?”
She eyed me up and down, smiling, then gave a pleased giggle, “Oh, fer a
handsome basher like yerself... “Three coppers’ll be enough t’loosen me
tongue. For information, mind you.” I laughed. She licked her lips, then
frowned. “Other questions of a deeper chant’ll cost ye more, though.”
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