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

Hive somewhere.” He shook his head. “Not know where.” He frowned again.
“Dushties vare-ee mad, thay not LIKE Fuh-arod.”
The man certainly didn’t have many friends. I needed to know more,
though, if I was going to meet him, “Why don’t the Dustmen like Pharod?”
“He’z a cullector. Bringz deaderz to Mortuaree, sellz ‘em to Dustmen. Bringz
LOT uf deaderz. Dushties not know where he getz deaderz. Think he’z puttin’
berks in deadbook.”
I raised an eyebrow. It was hard to parse his words through those stitched
lips of his, “What?”
Morte was always happy to fill in the silence, “He’s saying this Pharod berk
has been selling a lot of deaders... corpses... to the Dustmen. Sounds like
this Pharod’s been selling so many deaders that the Dusties think he’s been
putting Hivers in the dead-book before their hour’s up... y’know, killing
people.”
I considered that note I stumbled across my first hour here. Seemed like
something truly odd was going on with the man. I couldn't wait to meet him.
I sighed, “The guy sounds like a saint. What about Soego? Can you tell me
anything about him?”
The Anarchist grunted, “Guide. He at Mortuary frunt door. Wut yu wunt wi’
him?”
“What do you know about him?”
He shifted his weight and his lips narrowed, threatening to pull the stitches,
“So-ehgo. Actz strange, not Duhstie, not Anarchizt, eyez changed...” he
shrugged. “Likez ratz. Strange.”
Rats? What? “Well, what do you know about Dhall?”
He shrugged, “Scribe. Old. Yellow.”
I chuckled, “Well, that’s all there is to him, I suppose.” Something came to
me then. Deionarra. She had mentioned portals that I might escape through.
“Do you know a way out? The portals?”
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