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

"Yeah... a mimir's a floating encyclopedia. You put information in, you get
information out."
"But aren't mimirs made of a silvery metal?"
"So? Maybe some are, but I'm not. And there's stranger things on the Planes
than that, chief."
"I don't think you're a mimir, Morte. What are you?"
He edged away just a bit, cocked to the side suspiciously, "What's with the
interrogation? What do you know about mimirs, anyway?"
"I know enough to think you're lying to me. First, that bit about the missing
line from my back saying not to trust you, then this. What am I supposed to
think?"
"Okay, I'm not a mimir, but I know a lot of stuff, so I might as well be one."
"What are you then?"
"I'm a floating skull who knows a lot."
A low roar built from deep in my belly. Morte was feeding me scraps one by
one, and making me struggle for each. I might as well have been pulling
teeth, "What about that Baatorian smell you have?"
His eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets, "What would YOU know about
what Baator smells like? Unless - hey, you've been talking about me with
that tanar'ri, haven't you?! What does she know?!"
"Well, she obviously touched on something - that is a Baatorian smell,
right?"
"Well, yeah, but - well, yeah. So I smell a little. Excuse me."
"Why do you smell like Baator?"
He bobbed in a shrug, "I dunno, must've caught it from one of those fiends
that we cross paths with all the damn ti-"
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