TK JOHNSON

It took hours to dig him from the sickening stink of gristle and grime, from tepid pools of black blood and piles of broken bones. He was buried beneath a mound of moldering bodies and had been for some time, but he'd not be due for the Dustmen if you knew where to look.

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It was simple to track him down, to follow the clues that were carved into curves of torn flesh or the murmurs that rode the fetid breeze of the back alleys. A fistful of jagged jink could get you rumors but a swift stab in the side would get you facts: there was a mimir in the Hive and he would be dust by dawn if he didn't keep his fool mouth shut.

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So, it did not surprise you when you pried his jaw open and popped him from the grim grasp of a dead tiefling. He bobbed awkwardly in your grip, working the hinges of his jaw. You patiently picked threads of shriveled cloth from his molars.

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If a skull could truly be described as grinning, then that is what Morte did when the fidgeting ended and the flicker of recognition flared in his floating eyes. His chipped jaw clicked and and clacked and cackled merrily in your clutches.

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"Hey, Chief."