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

“Well... I am looking for someone named Pharod.”
“Pharod?” the sly smile was wiped from her face, “Now that’s one o’ the
greater darks, love. If ye be wantin’ t’know about that blood, that’ll be thrice
the coppers of a normal asking.”
Nine coppers clinked into her palm. The pouch really was getting lighter.
The harlot gave my coins a once over, then shrugged and pocketed them.
“What ye be wantin’ t’know about ol’ Pharod?”
“At that price, anything you can tell me about him.”
She shrugged. “Chant is he’s a Collector boss. Has a whole bunch o’ bloods
in his shadow.”
“And where can I find him?”
She looked off into the distance “Now, no one knows fer dead sure, but if I
were ta suggest a place, love, I’d say Ragpicker’s Square, a big ol’ heap o’
rags and trash three blocks due west o’ the Mortuary... all the Collectors
stake their kip there. Chances are, Pharod’s got his kip there, too.”
I nodded, “Thanks for the information. Farewell.”
Morte circled around to stop me, “Wait, chief, can you spot me a bit ‘o
coin... it’s... eh... been a long time, it has.”
I paused for a moment, the roiling questions in my mind froze to a snap.
“I’m not even going to ask how you intend to accomplish this.”
The woman broke in. “It’s twice the cost fer the mimir... or any other
degenerate.”
I had heard that word before, “Uh... ‘mimir?’”
“Mimir’s a talking encyclopedia. That's me, chief- hey! ‘Degenerate?!’”
The woman grinned, revealing two rows of dirty teeth. They were splotched
black and brown, one or two rotted to nubs.
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