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

I left Nodd to his head-bobbing and shuffling, wandering past the
broken-down huts here that barely deserved the name. Sharegrave. If he
was in charge here he might know where we could find this Pharod, the
squirrely bastard.
Sure enough, I came across the front porch of a (marginally) well-kept kip. It
was snarled with razorvine to deter intruders. The Collectors at the door
glanced at me, their hands at their knives, but they held back, if only by a
whisker. Their gazes darted back and forth between me and one bone-thin
thug pacing back and forth.
Tall and lanky, the pale, grim-looking man exuded authority despite his
gangly and somewhat awkward frame. A good portion of his left ear was
missing; what little that was left was a ragged mess of scar tissue, as if the
ear was bitten off, rather than cut. His narrow, shifting eyes - almost mere
slits - looked clever... and dangerous.
"Greetings."
He spat out a reply and glared at me, "I don't know you, berk. What do you
want? Answer quick, before I call in some men to make quick work of you."
"Are you Sharegrave?"
He scoffed, and looked at me incredulously. "Berk, who I am is the second
thing you should have known before you stomped your shivved-up,
corpse-looking self in here."
I blinked owlishly, "What's the first thing?"
"That I hate visitors, and I loathe strangers. You're both." He sneered and
tapped his finger to his temple. "Figure the rest out on your own."
"Calm down. I don't mean any harm," my voice was smooth as spun sugar,
but still he snarled in my face.
"Oh, you don't say! Well, that makes it all piking better then, don't it? Now,
I'm going ask you one more time before your arse hits the street - possibly in
several pieces - what do you want?"
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