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

and weep and lament, professing words of love tinged with prophecy. That
much I could handle.
But what I couldn't do was lie through my teeth and act as if I hadn't
betrayed her. As if she wasn't dead because I had used her. "Used." Weird
how such a simple word could sound so filthy.
Yet can anyone really expect me to come clean?
So I made myself a third path, and on occasion sat next to her sensory stone
as if it were a memorial, and the title of "Longing" were her epitaph.
Of course, with Morte chattering in my ear today I felt far from pensive.
"...so that's when the bauriur said, 'That's my wife.' HA! Get it? You don't
look like you're getting it, chief."
"I got it the first time you told me, Morte."
He scoffed, "Well I've told that one to each of your pikin' incarnations for
years now, how can I keep track of which stories I've told to what lives and
which I haven't?"
"Is that story even true?"
"Of course it is. Go back to the bar and you'll see the bloodstain and the
dent in the wall. They still call it 'Zeeley's Mark.'"
"Hrmph," I rolled my eyes. In the chamber a gentleman stood, decked in
blue with matching cap and a staff of polished silver. He seemed to be lost in
a sensation, but without a hand on a sensory stone. I returned to Morte,
"How can you know all these stories and not know anything about Ravel?"
"I prefer stories that end up with other people getting killed instead of me."
"And I suppose half those stories involve me?"
"You're selling yourself short, chief."
I sighed, and walked up to the man out of curiosity. He was chewing on
something, muttering softly to himself... after a moment, there was a CRACK
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