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

"Nordom's utility kit can conform to eight hundred and ninety-three
functions," he buzzed, "and with appropriate modifications can be increased
to handle 22% more."
"I'm sure that someone, somewhere in multiverse, would be aroused by
that."
The courtesan finally returned, Morte bobbing dizzily along beside her. He
was coated with a glossy sheen -- as if he'd been waxed and buffed -- and
had a red smudge on his crown in the shape of a pair of lips. "Your... mimir?
...seemed to enjoy himself, good sir."
"Morte?"
Morte seemed only dimly aware of my presence, and alternated between
giggling to himself and sighing pleasantly.
~~~~~
Breakfast was just a glass of lychee juice.
It was part of Candrian's advice. On the night before a big jaunt, stuff
yourself with a large meal, then eat little to nothing the next morning. Keeps
your energy up but your stomach light, if you need to run like hell. I looked
over the leavings of last night's feast: the picked-clean carcass of a roast
duck, a platter of empty oyster shells, a leftover crust of herb bread, and a
now-empty pot of stew. There was a giddy, fluttering feeling in the pit of my
stomach... I couldn't help but get the sense that this was our last meal.
"All right. Are we ready?"
"I've got your back, chief."
"Aye."
"My blade is yours."
Grace nodded, and Nordom simply peered into his lens and blinked. That's
all I needed.
909