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

"You sing of the One of Many Deaths?" the woman with the spear asks,
holding her mug close to her breast. Her voice is fierce and challenging, the
sneer loud in her words, "I have heard of one tale, uttered by a drunk as he
lay in a stupor. He spoke of one served by men and women both, using them
as tools and cast aside when overworn or broken."
An imp, cocking its head from its perch on a seat back looks up. A small sack
is slung over its small shoulder, "He Dies Many Can One? Fossils wrack and
age of all good man, good man, so I taste and burn!"
The deva smiles and nods, "I sing of all of them, and none, good friends. I am
Oudilin Ovariis, bard and collector of histories."
"Myth, more like!" the first gruff voice shouts again, and you see a short
humanoid leap up onto the table. A dwarf, you've heard, some sort of
burrowing creature. Still, it seems shorter than it has been described to you,
"A thousand fairy tales and rumors are told every day, in this rat-piss corner
of the City alone! Just another coffer of dung, I say!" A murmur of
agreement flows through the crowd.
"Dung?"
"DUNG! Dung TWICE!"
"Ah, but--"
"THREE TIMES!"
The deva gives a short pause to let the fellow calm down. The dwarf is
panting, and near foaming at the mouth best you can tell, "What is your
name, good friend?"
"I be G'mir!"
Another pause.
"G'mir? G'mir the Midget Dwarf? Rager and barbarian? The one who slew
the Arch-Demon Lord Gulathomon after being tossed into battle?" the
spearwoman asks. You have a feeling that G'mir was "tossed" into battle
quite literally.
7