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

Dustman at the Gathering Dust Bar -- Initiate Emoric, I think the fool's
name is -- has been sending out finders to try and mark Pharod's
movements. See if you can find out how far along he is and hinder his
efforts until we know more about Pharod's activities. I don't want Emoric
finding out something before we do.
- Penn
The mystery of Pharod’s wealth of corpses, once a minor footnote on a
sheet torn from a logbook, had grown to become a real problem, it seemed.
I felt a little guilty about pocketing the coin, but this Vaxis seemed like he
could take care of himself. Frankly, I needed the cash more.
And yet another name. Emoric. Perhaps I should meet this man.
I sighed in relief as the hot air of the Hive kissed my skin. The stench was
present as always, thick and noxious, but I breathed it in deep. It was rich in
its own way, and it wasn’t as if the fumes were going to kill me.
“Well, here we are again, chief. Let’s explore the city without you keeping
knives in your fleshy parts this time.”
I flicked the knife in my hand, and the blunt end cracked against my wrist
awkwardly before I could catch it. I was comfortable with the feel of the
blade, skilled enough in its motions, but I had come to realize that the
people I was up against were stronger than me, faster, and I was neither
brutish nor quick enough to take on the multiple enemies I might face.
“Morte, I’ll need something more powerful to defend myself with.”
He tilted in a shrug of sorts, “It’d be tough to find a good sword hereabouts,
but a stout piece of wood, a bone wrapped in rags, a sliver of metal. Take
your pick, chief.”
I gazed at the sky, breathing in the strange, abstract wonders of the city,
“Looks like I’ll just have to be more careful then. Let’s try heading west now,
like Pox and the harlot suggested.”
Buildings patched in black and green weedy vines passed by us. As we
walked through the Hive, the citizens seemed even more forlorn, dirtier.
Each citizen’s eyes were more vacant, more forlorn. The houses barely
deserved the name: little more than crude huts of patchwork wooden
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