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

stood, the way her eyes widened just slightly at the name ‘Pharod,’ “Hmm.
The girl did seem somewhat... interesting.”
Morte’s grin seemed to split wider, “See? Gams-and-melons it is.”
“I thought you said she was ugly.”
“I say lots of things.”
~~~~~
Age-old smoke and char, the slightest whiff of it was on the air. An old,
burned-out building stood square on one side, rusted old walls on the other,
squeezing the street into a narrow alley. A few unkempt thugs stood to one
side of the street, leaning nonchalantly. One flicked a knife in the air,
another was idly cleaning his nails with the tip of a dagger.
A particularly ugly one, hair swept up in a crest like a rooster’s, approached
me with a cocky stride. Puckers and slashes lined his face, a good long cut
under his eye had been a hair away from blinding him.
“Greetings, stranger. Looks like you’re in Darkalley Shiv territory now. Looks
like you’ve got a purse that could use some lightening. You better pray it’s
got enough,” his unfriendly grin was full of yellowed, grimy teeth. Likely
these people knew Pharod.
“I need to talk to your leader,” I said.
He cocked his head, “Rotten William? Aye, I’ll let you talk to him as soon as
you let me look inside that purse.”
“Er... no. Pharod.”
The man just smiled.
“I think we’ll just be going now,” I gestured to Morte to back up.
“Nay, nay I don’t think you’ll be doin’ that, cutter...” the thug lunged at me,
and with the soft, thick sound of metal sliding into meat he slid a dagger into
my belly. I stared dumbly at him. He blinked, then whistled. With that
piercing call his friends leapt in, sliding out from the shadows and corners.
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