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

getting the information is your deal. And if anyone asks, you don't know me,
and we never had this talk, hear?"
Morte sighed and shook his head as we left.
"What?"
Morte floated in front of me and looked me in the eye, "You know, chief, it
probably isn't a good idea to make promises like that before we know the
whole deal. You'll be wearing a braided rope necklace by being too helpful."
Mmh. Perhaps he was right.
A sharp, bitter scent pierced through the stink. It was partly woody, partly
fragrant. There was the smell of burnt paraffin, the sweetness of good
wood-smoke. Strangely, I was reminded of fresh-cut greenery, and the rank
scent of newly budding sap.
Fresh herbs? Here? I couldn’t quite believe it.
Curiously, I approached a hut that actually looked habitable. Straight
wooden planks were tied in a circle with metal wire, like the sides of a
barrel, while the a banged-up sheet of metal, perhaps once the section of a
wall, served as a roof. The steps to the door creaked as I walked over them,
dark and brittle as they were with age. These planks were more accustomed
to a lighter step.
The painted sign on the door was faded with age so that the letters were
unreadable, but a list of prices had been etched into the wood. Midwifery,
ten coppers. Poultices and wound-binding, six coppers. Leeches, five
coppers.
I entered.
The good-sized hut was both home and shop. A bed, sheets threadbare but
clean, sat at the other end of the room. Next to it an upright rack held herbs
that had been laid out to dry, filling the air with a sweet woody smell. The
stove where an old woman stood at was made of some sort of petrified
wood, and a small pot bubbled with what looked like bits of fish and giblets.
The squat old woman looked like she had all the color bled out of her --
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