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

The dull crack of flesh sounded in my ears.
"Just tell us!" another guard snarled.
"I can't!" Jansen wailed.
One of the guards spotted me, and he paused long enough in administering
the beating to give me a cold stare, "You didn't see nothing, not if you know
what's good for you." He turned back to his victim.
I knew I was going to regret it, but I turned away. I asked a few more seeking
out the deva, but most were... less than helpful. Going at it alone wasn't
going to work.
Conjure up the smell of bilgewater and mildew, of rags rank with both yet
using them for scrubbing glasses so filthy it's still an improvement. Imagine
the dozens of black-rimmed eyes flickering upon you for half an instant, so
quick that you barely realize it'd been done and you wonder what's going on
behind that feigned disinterest. See yourself counting out exact change,
because you know the coin you'd recieve in return otherwise would've in all
likelihood been nestled between the scabby breasts of a pox-ridden whore
recently.
That's luxury compared to the Traitor's Gate Tavern.
I sat down at the bar. The cushion of the stool was so worn that I might as
well have been sitting on bare wood with a crusty leather sack layered over
it.
"Carceri whisky, please," and for once I was glad for the coarse grumble in
my voice. It scared off most of the rats. Note that I said 'most.'
"Oi, boss," a hooded man greeted me. His robes were stiff with sweat and
grime. A mold-black tongue flicked out over teeth as yellow as butter, "Ye
look like ye had a tussle. Need a rest, boss?" His hand was already sliding
beneath his robe.
"Don't worry about me. You should have seen the other guy."
And in a flash he was gone.
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