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

keep in its pen!" the drunken woman drew her blade, and the two men with
her, rugged if a little too rich-looking for pub-crawlers, placed hands on the
hilts of their swords.
I put a hand on Annah's shoulder, and her gaze snapped to mine in a way
that said she wanted to plunge one of those daggers into me if I got into her
business. She would've done it, too, but by the look of the four of us we
would be standing together. Ignus merely floated, watching.
I stepped forward, my voice a low growl. "Sheathe that blade, girl, or I'll
sheathe it in your body."
"What foul thing gave birth to you, sirrah?" She grimaced in disgust, then
laughed harshly. "And such a stench! Be you one of death's bastards?"
Morte looked to me hopefully, "Want me to slap this barmy chit down,
chief?"
"Show no mercy, Morte."
This was going to be beautiful.
Morte winked at me and called to the woman: "Hey, you! That's right, you
there, you saucy little tart... look at me when I talk to you! What's got you so
bitter, hmm?"
The woman, caught off guard, didn't reply. She only stared at the floating
skull that suddenly popped out to dance around her and jeer.
"Aw, does the little Desert Princess have her britches in a bunch because the
Sultan wanted another son? Tell me, 'Desert Princess,' do you spend most of
your nights drunken and belligerent, followed about by a handful of leering
sycophants, looking in your own pathetic way to justify your existence to a
disapproving father?"
"What... who... how dare-" she sputtered, the blood draining from her face.
The two men flanking her glanced at each other and turned pale.
"Do you really think your petty brawling will finally make you feel better
about yourself? Feel like you're worth something? Because IT WON'T! If this
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