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

Foam-white, from the foam?
When thy lips had such lovers to flatter;
When the city lay red from thy rods,
And thine hands were as arrows to scatter
The children of change and their gods;
When the blood of thy foemen made fervent
A sand never moist from the main,
As one smote thm, their lord and thy servant,
Our Lady of Pain.
~
Maze Entry 10
Jackpot.
Found a crude encampment. A firepit had been burned into the stone floor,
and two old ratty blankets served as a pallet. An assortment of charred
human bones had been piled up on the side, disturbing and overly familiar. I
don't approach them.
it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts
Digging around however, I uncovered a heavy warhammer and a journal.
Cleverly constructed, the frame was made from human bones spliced
together, with sheets of dried human skin stretched across them. The skins
had healed together forming the the spine of the journal, and locked
together other pages of skin between. The cover was of the same pallor as
my flesh, and its scarred gray surface was reminiscent of a zombie's hide. It
was pretty obvious what this had been made from.
A series of incomprehensible symbols had been written in blood across the
cover. They had been scrawled with a crazed hand, and were written
upside-down, right to left, and at odd angles that made my eyes hurt. I really
wish I had that linguist on hand.
They say the ladies love a linguist. Who can turn down a master of many
tongues?
Fantastic. Now I have Morte in my head too.
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