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

esting the lyre on one knee, "How exactly did you come across this eye,
then?"
"Ah, but that is a story in and of itself, lad!" she flicks the eye in the air like a
coin, optic nerve wriggling and flailing as if it were a snake's tail, "There we
were on the Isle of Fading Thoughts, where memories go to die. A select few
poor sods lose their way when they fall into the Deep Sleep, and wander the
Astral a-while before reaching the Outer Planes. Those that are caught on
the Isle are held by its morticians: a sorry lot, lanky and long-limbed like
garden spiders. There they embalm these souls rather than their bodies, and
ornament them with ancient crystallized thoughts: the honey-sweetness of
a first kiss, an echo of springtime blooming throughout Elysium and the
perfumed scent of its wildflowers. And there upon its crests and cliffs the
dead are buried in caskets of fading dreams.
"Well, what better place to plunder, I say! That night we traveled, the Joren
Dell, its sails swelled fat with the winds of memory, its keel buoyed by
currents of lost and dying beliefs. We sailed along the lee of the Isle, a small
void where stray thoughts were few. We rode a little eddy of dying faith (not
so little these days, thanks to the efforts of the Athar) and found ourselves
in a cove, populated only by fat worms that fed on the mental detritus of
the planes. Disgusting things really; taste like jellied bilgewater.
"When we disembarked I took a party of twelve others with me. As I said,
baker's dozen is fond luck! With my coterie behind me I went and plundered
the catacombs for ancient treasures.
"I was just examining a fat little sensation (must've been a thousand years
old and the size of a robin's egg) of a poet's satisfaction at finally completing
his masterwork after two decades o' scourin' the planes for the right words.
T'was then that a squeak caught our attention, and this little jigger launched
itself at us," she holds up the eye for emphasis, "Thing yearned for a socket
to bury itself in after being without a skull to call a home for countless
centuries, and it immediately started nudging itself at the forehead o' my
boatswain.
"Well he shrieked like a banshee 'e did, and dropped a pile of old joys and
sorrows. The joys bounced, that was no matter... but the lamentations
shattered against the floor like glass and heaved up this horrible cloud o'
elegies, and the stench of that awakened the morticians."
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