Lou slowly regained consciousness, her eyes fluttering open to a scene that defied all reason. She found herself standing in a dark, cavernous space, the air heavy with an oppressive chill that seeped into her bones. Confusion and fear gripped her heart as she tried to make sense of her surroundings.

('Where am I? What happened to me?') Lou thought, her mind reeling as she took in the eerie, unfamiliar environment. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the cold, stale air. Her eyes darted around the dimly lit space, trying to discern any clues about her location.

As Lou's vision adjusted to the gloom, unsettling details began to emerge. The walls were lined with metal drawers, each one labeled with a small plaque. The overwhelming scent of preserving fluids and formaldehyde assaulted her nostrils, mingling with the faint, sickly-sweet odor of decaying flesh.

('This can't be real. There must be a logical explanation,') Lou tried to reassure herself, even as a growing sense of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She took a tentative step forward, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous room. That's when she heard it - the shuffling of feet and the creaking of dry joints.

To her horror, Lou realized she was not alone. Shambling figures emerged from the shadows, their movements jerky and unnatural. As they drew closer, she could make out the grotesque details of their appearance - rotting flesh hanging from exposed bones, empty eye sockets staring blankly ahead.

('Zombies? No, that's impossible. This has to be a dream, a hallucination,') Lou's mind raced, desperately trying to rationalize the nightmarish scene before her. But the cold, the smell, the tangible reality of it all - it was too vivid to be a mere dream. Panic rising in her chest, Lou backed away from the approaching corpses, only to find herself trapped against a locked door.

As Lou pressed herself against the cold, unyielding wall, her heart pounding in her chest, she realized that the shambling figures were not, in fact, advancing upon her. Instead, they seemed to be engaged in some sort of repetitive, mindless task. Curiosity momentarily overriding her terror, Lou forced herself to observe their actions more closely.

('They're not attacking me... but what are they doing?') Lou thought, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to make sense of the macabre scene before her. The zombies, their flesh hanging in tatters from their bones, moved with a jerky, mechanical precision. They seemed to be transporting metal slabs laden with preserved corpses along a series of rails set into the floor.

As Lou watched, the realization dawned on her that these walking dead were performing the duties of mortuary workers. Their movements were devoid of any spark of intelligence or awareness, and the only sounds that escaped their decaying jaws were occasional, guttural groans that echoed in the cavernous space.

('This is insane... there has to be a rational explanation,') Lou's mind raced, desperately trying to impose some semblance of logic on the nightmare she found herself in. Despite her best efforts to calm herself, the young philosopher could feel panic rising in her throat. Seeking some form of shelter, she began to back away, searching for a corner or alcove in which to hide.

As Lou retreated, her eyes darting frantically around the room, she suddenly found herself face to face with a most unlikely sight - a floating, disembodied skull, its empty eye sockets somehow seeming to sparkle with mischief. Startled beyond all reason, Lou let out a piercing scream, her voice reverberating off the stone walls.

"Well, well, well... what have we here?" the skull said, hovering closer, its jaw moving as it spoke. There was a playful, almost teasing quality to its voice. "You're a bit young to be hangin' around a mortuary, dontcha think, kid?"

Lou, her heart still racing from the fright, managed to stammer out a response, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination.

"I... I don't know how I got here," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm Louise... Louise L'Estrange. Who... or what... are you?" Despite the otherworldly nature of her conversation partner, Lou found herself clinging to the normalcy of introductions, a lifeline in this sea of madness.

"The name's Morte," the skull replied, performing a little midair bob that might have been a bow. "Resident wisecracker and all-around charming fellow. As for the 'what'... well, I'm a Mimir. A talking encyclopedia, if you will. With a dash of dashing good looks thrown in for good measure." He winked, a gesture that should have been impossible for a bare skull.

As Morte's words sank in, Lou felt her mind reeling, unable to reconcile the idea of a talking encyclopedia with her rational understanding of the world. ('This can't be happening. Encyclopedias don't talk, and they certainly don't have personalities!') she thought, her eyes wide with disbelief. Yet, here she was, conversing with a floating skull who claimed to be just that.

"Hey, kid, you okay there? You look like you've seen a ghost," Morte quipped, his jaw clicking as he chuckled at his own joke. "Which, I suppose, isn't too far from the truth, given our current surroundings."

Lou, still trembling, forced herself to focus on Morte's words. Despite her fear and confusion, one thing was clear - she needed to get out of this place. And if this strange, wisecracking skull was offering a way out, she had to take it.

"Please," she whispered, her voice quavering, "take me with you. I don't know how I got here, but I know I don't want to stay." ('I must be losing my mind, asking a floating skull for help. But what choice do I have?')

Morte, seemingly oblivious to Lou's inner turmoil, bobbed in the air, his empty eye sockets somehow conveying a sense of mischievous glee. "Well, then, let's go find my Chief! He's got to be around here somewhere. Probably taking a little nap, the lazy bum."

With that, Morte began floating away, weaving between the shambling corpses with practiced ease. Lou, her heart pounding, had no choice but to follow, picking her way gingerly through the macabre scene. ('Chief? Who or what is this Chief? And why would they be here, in this horrible place?') she wondered, her mind racing with unanswered questions.

As they navigated the twisting corridors of the mortuary, Lou couldn't help but marvel at the incongruity of her situation. Here she was, a young girl who had always prided herself on her logical mind, following a talking skull through a nightmare world of the undead. It was like something out of the fantasy novels she had always dismissed as frivolous.

"Ah, there he is!" Morte exclaimed suddenly, jarring Lou from her thoughts. "Knew he couldn't have gone far."

Lou followed Morte's gaze to a central slab, upon which lay the prone form of a man. He was an imposing figure, even in repose, with a muscular, scarred body and a face that looked as though it had been carved from weathered stone. He appeared lifeless, his chest unmoving.

"Hey, Chief! Rise and shine, you big lug!" Morte called out, floating over to the man and hovering near his head. "We've got a damsel in distress here, and you're just lying around?"

As Lou stared at the motionless figure on the slab, a cold dread seeped into her bones. ('He's dead, he has to be. Or worse... what if he's one of those things, those zombies?') Her mind raced with terrifying possibilities, each more gruesome than the last.

"Go on, kid, give him a nudge," Morte urged, his tone light and playful despite the macabre surroundings. "Old Chief here sleeps like the dead, but he's not gonna bite. Well, probably not, anyway." The skull chuckled at his own joke.

"I... I can't," Lou whispered, her voice trembling. She took a step back, shaking her head vehemently. ('What if he wakes up and attacks me? What if he tries to... to eat me?') The thought was too horrifying to even contemplate.

Morte, undeterred by Lou's reluctance, continued to cajole her. "Come on, don't be such a scaredy-cat! Chief's a big softy, really. Just give him a poke, and let's get this show on the road."

Lou bit her lip, torn between her fear and the insistent prodding of the talking skull. ('I must be losing my mind, taking advice from a floating head.') Steeling herself, she took a tentative step forward, her hand outstretched. As her fingers brushed against the man's cold, hard, gray skin, she flinched, expecting the worst.

Suddenly, the man's hand shot out, grasping Lou's wrist in an iron grip. A scream tore from her throat as she stumbled back, trying desperately to pull away. "Let go! Let go of me!" she cried, her voice high and panicked.

The man's eyes fluttered open, a look of confusion and disorientation on his weathered face. "Wha...?" His voice was a dry rasp. "Where... am I?" He seemed not to register Lou's presence, or her struggles to free herself.

Lou continued to pull against the man's grip, tears of fear streaming down her face. ('He's going to kill me, oh God, he's going to kill me!') Her mind was a whirlwind of terror, all rational thought drowned out by the pounding of her heart.

"Easy there, Chief!" Morte chided, floating into the man's line of sight. "You're scaring the kid half to death. Let her go, ya big lug."

As if suddenly becoming aware of Lou's presence, the man released his grip, causing her to stumble back, gasping for breath. He blinked slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion as he took in the sight of the floating skull.

"Wh...? Who are you?" he asked, his voice still rough and disoriented.

"Uh... who am I? How about you start? Who're you?" Morte retorted, his tone a mix of amusement and exasperation.

As the Nameless One struggled to his feet, his brow furrowed in confusion, Lou couldn't help but stare at the multitude of scars that crisscrossed his gray, weathered skin. ('He looks like he's been through a war... or several,') she thought, a shiver running down her spine. 

"I... don't know. I can't remember," the Nameless One said, his voice rough and strained as he tried to recall anything about his identity or how he had come to be in this macabre place.

"Well, well, looks like someone had a bit too much to drink last night, eh Chief?" Morte quipped, his jaw clicking as he chuckled. "Must've gotten into some trouble and landed yourself here to sleep it off."

The floating skull's gaze then turned to Lou, and he let out a low whistle. "And what about you, kid? Don't tell me you're here to collect some bodies for your necromancy experiments. I mean, ol' Chief here was dead as a doornail until you touched him. Coincidence? I think not!"

Lou's eyes widened in horror at the accusation. "What? No! I'm not a necromancer! I don't even know how I got here!" She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the cold, damp air of the mortuary.

The Nameless One, still trying to get his bearings, looked around the cavernous room. "Where... where are we, exactly?" he asked, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

"It's called the 'Mortuary'," Morte replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "It's a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider. And it seems we're locked in here, Chief."

The Nameless One frowned, his scarred features twisting into a grimace. Lou, her heart still pounding from Morte's earlier insinuation, turned to the floating skull. "What do you mean, 'locked in'?" she demanded, her voice trembling slightly.

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist, kid," Morte said, rolling his nonexistent eyes. "I've tried all the doors. This room is sealed up tighter than a virgin's chastity belt. Seems the caretakers of this fine establishment mistook us for corpses."

The skull leered at Lou, his empty eye sockets somehow conveying a sense of mischief. "Not that I can blame them in your case, kid. You'd make a pretty corpse." Lou blanched, her hands flying to her face as if to reassure herself that she was, in fact, still alive.

The Nameless One, however, shook his head. "I don't think I'm a corpse," he said slowly, his hand pressed against his chest. "I'm breathing, at least."

"Not from where I'm standing," Morte retorted, eyeing the Nameless One's heavily scarred body. "You look like you've been through the wringer a few times, Chief. Enough to make anyone look a bit... corpse-like."

As the Nameless One struggled to his feet, Lou's eyes were drawn to his back. There, amidst the patchwork of scars, she could make out what appeared to be a message carved into his very flesh.

Lou stared in wide-eyed horror at the Nameless One's back, the lattice of scars transforming his skin into a grim tapestry. Amidst the patchwork of keloids and gnarled tissue, a message had been carved, each letter a testament to unfathomable pain. "Oh my goodness!" she exclaimed, her hands flying to her mouth as she gestured frantically at the macabre sight. "There's a message! On your back! Who would do such a thing? Why not just use paper?"

Morte let out a low whistle, his jaw clicking as he hovered closer to inspect the Nameless One's ravaged skin. "Looks like someone decided to use your hide as parchment, Chief. Personally, I prefer the feel of animal skin, but I guess human flesh works in a pinch, eh?" He chuckled darkly, his empty eye sockets glinting with morbid humor.

Lou's eyes widened further, if that were even possible, and she turned to the floating skull, her voice trembling. "Is... is that common here? Using human skin for parchment?" The thought was so horrifying, so alien to her rational mind, that she could scarcely bring herself to voice it.

Morte cackled, his laughter echoing off the stone walls of the mortuary. "Nah, kid, I'm just messing with ya. Though I wouldn't put it past some of the sick puppies in this burg. Sigil's a real freak show, let me tell you."

The Nameless One, meanwhile, had grown increasingly irritated with the tangential nature of their conversation. His brow furrowed, and he let out a grunt of annoyance. "Could we focus on the message, please?" he growled, his gravelly voice tinged with exasperation. "I'd like to know what it says, if it's not too much trouble."

Lou, cowed by the Nameless One's gruff demeanor, opened her mouth to apologize, but Morte beat her to the punch. "Whoa there, Mr. Personality!" the skull quipped, bobbing in the air with an air of mock indignation. "You might want to show a little interest in the people who found your sorry carcass before demanding favors. I'm Morte, resident wit and raconteur, and this lovely lass is Louise, who is definitely not a necromancer."

The Nameless One's eyes narrowed as he took in this information, his gaze flicking between the odd pair. "A Mimir and a... not-necromancer. Right." He shook his head, the scars on his face twisting with the motion. "The message, if you please."

Lou swallowed hard, trying to quell the rising tide of fear in her gut. ('I'm not a necromancer, I'm not, I'm not...') she thought frantically, even as Morte began to read aloud.

"Let's see... it starts with... 'I know you feel like you've been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to CENTER yourself. Among your possessions is a journal that'll shed some light on the dark of the matter. Don't lose the journal or we'll be up the Styx again. Pharod can fill you in on the rest of the chant, if he's not in the dead-book already. Do what I tell you: READ the journal, then FIND Pharod.'"

The Nameless One's brow furrowed further as he processed this cryptic message. "Pharod? Journal? What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice rough with confusion and growing suspicion.

Morte simply chuckled, his laughter taking on a mocking edge. "You're asking me, Chief? It's your back, not mine. If you've got a journal squirreled away somewhere, that's news to me."

As the Nameless One's piercing gaze turned to Lou, she felt her pupils dilate with fear. She shook her head vehemently, a silent denial of any knowledge or involvement. ('Please, please don't let him think I have anything to do with this...') 

The Nameless One's suspicion was rapidly morphing into outright distrust. He had the distinct impression that he was trapped in some sort of unpleasant farce, with these two strange characters as the main players. His eyes narrowed to slits as he regarded them, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "Why are you here? Why were you looking for me in a place like this? Start talking, both of you, or things are going to get very unpleasant, very quickly."

Lou's eyes darted around the mortuary, desperately seeking a corner, a nook, any place where she could hide from the Nameless One's piercing glare. ('This is insane,') she thought, her heart pounding in her chest. ('Following a man this aggressive, this unpredictable... it's suicide!') But as her gaze fell upon the shambling corpses in the shadows, their mindless groans echoing off the stone walls, she realized with a sinking feeling that her options were severely limited. Every door was locked, every exit barred. There was nowhere to run.

Morte, on the other hand, seemed entirely unfazed by the Nameless One's interrogation. If anything, he appeared amused, his jaw clicking as he let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Listen, berk," he said, his voice dripping with disdain, "I don't know what crawled up your ass and died, but you might want to tone down the attitude. You're the one who carved that message into your own damn back, before you kicked the bucket. Jabbed a knife in there and everything. Real pretty, let me tell you."

The Nameless One's eyes narrowed, his scarred face twisting into a scowl. "What are you talking about, skull? I did this to myself? Why would I do that?"

Morte rolled his eyes, an impressive feat for a being without any. "Beats me, Chief. All I know is, you hired me to read that message back to you before it disappeared. Said I was your 'encyclopedia' or some such. Guess you figured that big brain of yours might need a refresher after your little nap."

The Nameless One's brow furrowed, his suspicion far from assuaged. "Disappeared? What do you mean, disappeared?" There was something about Morte's story that rang false, contrived. But how could he prove it? If he had, indeed, hired Morte as a messenger, why would he not have given the Mimir more information?

Morte let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his nonexistent eyes. "It means you're a deader, genius. An immortal. That fancy healing factor of yours? It makes the message fade. Poof. Gone. Like it was never there. Ring any bells in that empty head of yours?"

Lou, despite her fear, found herself listening intently to Morte's words. Slowly, hesitantly, she spoke up, her voice trembling slightly. "I... I think Morte might be telling the truth. Or at least, some of it." She swallowed hard, her mind racing as she tried to piece together the clues. "The message... it hints at your death, and your immortality. The writer, whoever they are, they refer to you and themselves as 'we'. And the bit about drinking from the Styx, and the journal... it's like they knew you'd lose your memory after a temporary death. And if we assume you are truly immortal, the sender of this message is likely you before your death."

Lou paused, her brow furrowed in concentration. "If Morte doesn't know more, it's because... because once you read the journal, the memory problem should be solved. So there's no need to risk revealing these secrets to others." She took a deep breath, her mind whirring. "We can't prove Morte's telling the truth, And while I understand that the predicament you found yourself in—the one that led you to contemplate your own death—is still unresolved... but... but it seems our immediate goal should be to find your journal and this Pharod, as the message states."

Morte's jaw dropped, his eye sockets somehow conveying a sense of awe. "Well, damn, kid! And here I thought you were just a scared little rabbit. You've got some serious brains rattling around in that pretty head of yours." He turned to the Nameless One, his tone almost gloating. "You see, Chief? Even the girl gets it!" he crowed, his tone equal parts gloating and admiring. "The kid's got a brain in her head, unlike some people I could mention. You gonna listen to reason, or what?"

The Nameless One, his anger slowly ebbing, pondered Lou's deductions. As much as he hated to admit it, her logic was sound. With a heavy sigh, he nodded, conceding the point. "Fine. We'll do it your way. For now. But I'm watching you both. One false move..."

Morte, unperturbed by the threat, simply chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, we get it, tough guy. Now, how about we blow this joint and find that journal of yours? This place is giving me the creeps."

Lou, relieved that the immediate crisis seemed to have passed, found herself nodding in agreement. "Yes, please. Let's get out of here. Somewhere with fewer... corpses, preferably." She shuddered, the macabre surroundings once again pressing in on her senses.

The Nameless One, his suspicions far from quelled, nevertheless found himself moving towards the door. Whatever lay beyond had to be better than this death house. "Alright then. Let's move."

As the trio stood before the imposing iron door, Lou couldn't help but feel a sense of despair. The door was massive, easily twice her height, and looked heavy enough to withstand a battering ram. Worse still, a large, rusted lock held it firmly shut. ('How are we ever going to get through that?') she thought, her heart sinking.

Morte, however, seemed unperturbed. "I'd bet my last molar that one of these walking stiffs has the key," he said, his jaw clicking as he surveyed the shambling corpses around them. "Dusties ain't exactly known for their creativity. If they need a key, they'll keep it close."

Lou, her brow furrowed in confusion, turned to the floating skull. "But why would they give a key to a zombie?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. "It's not like they can use it, right? They're just... mindless." She shuddered as she watched the stiff, jerky movements of the undead workers, their limbs locked in an eternal rigor mortis.

Morte chuckled, his eye sockets somehow conveying a sense of mirth. "True, but think about it, kid. That door's got a keyhole on the inside, right? Means there's probably a spare key hidden in here somewhere. The 'caretakers' wouldn't want to risk getting locked in."

The skull bobbed in the air, his gaze sweeping over the room. "And giving the key to a zombie? Minimal security, but security nonetheless. These 'workers' are slow, and they won't attack unless we strike first. But trust me, you don't want to get hit by one of those stiff arms. It's like getting whacked with a war hammer."

The Nameless One, his scarred brow furrowed in thought, turned to Morte. "You keep mentioning these 'folks' running the Mortuary," he said, his voice low and rough. "Who are they, exactly?"

Morte grinned, relishing the opportunity to show off his knowledge. "They call themselves the 'Dustmen.' You can't miss 'em: They have an obsession with black and rigor mortis of the face. They're an addled bunch of ghoulish death-worshippers; they believe everybody should die... sooner better than later."

Lou shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. "That's... that's horrifying," she whispered, her eyes wide. "Why would anyone worship death like that?"

Morte laughed, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "Kid, I ain't even gonna try to understand the thought process of a bunch of crazy fanatics who think everyone should die ASAP. Not unless you want to join their little religion and become one of their undead workers."

Lou blanched at the thought, swallowing hard. As the group began to search the corpses, she couldn't help but imagine herself as one of them, her skin gray and rotting, her movements stiff and jerky. ('No, no, no. I won't let that happen. I can't.')

As the group continued to search the zombies, they finally found one with a rusty metal key wedged between its grimy teeth, the number '782' etched into its forehead - likely a worker identification number.

('How are we supposed to get that out?') Lou thought, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the idea of reaching into the zombie's mouth. But before she could voice her concerns, The Nameless One strode forward, his eyes gleaming with a sudden clarity of purpose.

In one swift, brutal motion, The Nameless One swung his fist, shattering the zombie's jaw with a sickening crunch. Lou let out a gasp of shock, her hands flying to her mouth, while Morte whooped with glee. 

"Nice one, Chief!" the skull crowed, his voice filled with manic excitement. "Guess you don't know your own strength, huh?"

The zombie crumpled to the ground, its shattered jaw hanging loosely, the key tumbling from its ruined mouth. It clattered to the floor, skittering across the stone. The zombie twitched, trying to rise, its movements erratic and uncoordinated.

But The Nameless One was faster. His foot came down hard, crushing the creature's skull with a wet, crunching sound that turned Lou's stomach. She gagged as brain matter and ichorous fluid splattered across the floor, and the zombie finally fell still, its unlife extinguished.

In the sudden silence that followed, The Nameless One reached down, plucking the gore-streaked key from the ground. He held it up, his eyes glinting with a sense of grim satisfaction.

"Well, that's one way to do it," Morte quipped, his tone equal parts admiring and unnerved. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Chief."

The Nameless One wiped the blood and bits of flesh from his hands and the rusty key on the tattered remains of the zombie's clothing, seemingly unfazed by the grisly task. Lou, on the other hand, recoiled in horror, her stomach churning at the sight of the gore. ('How can he be so calm about this?') she thought, swallowing back the bile rising in her throat.

The Nameless One, ignoring Lou's reaction, strode towards the door, the key gripped tightly in his scarred hand. With a grating screech of metal on metal, the door swung open, revealing a wide corridor beyond. The oppressive atmosphere remained unchanged, the same chill and stench of death permeating the air.

As they stepped into the corridor, Lou felt her heart sink. If anything, the enclosed space heightened her sense of being trapped, of having nowhere to run. Especially with three more zombies shuffling along the passage they needed to traverse.

A reflexive whimper of fear escaped Lou's lips, and she found herself instinctively ducking behind The Nameless One's hulking form, using him as a shield between herself and the undead horrors. Morte, on the other hand, let out a whoop of delight. "Well, well, well! Would you look at that, chief? Looks like our welcoming committee is all ladies!" he crowed.

The Nameless One shot Morte a skeptical look, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What's got you so excited, skull? They're just more zombies," he growled, his hand tightening around the gore-streaked key.

Morte grinned, his jaw clicking as he swiveled his eye sockets to meet The Nameless One's gaze. "Wh- are you _serious?_ Look, Chief, these dead chits are the last chance for a couple of hardy bashers like us. We need to be _chivalrous_... no hacking them up for keys, no lopping their limbs off, things like that."

The Nameless One stared at Morte, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. "What in the Nine Hells are you talking about, Morte?" he asked, massaging his temples as if to stave off a headache.

Morte, his tone entirely serious, launched into a spiel that sounded like complete and utter madness to Lou. "Chief, THEY'RE dead, WE'RE dead... see where I'm going? Eh? Eh? Chief, we already got an opening line with these limping ladies. We've _all_ died at least once: we'll have something to talk about. They'll appreciate men with our kind of death experience. And from where I'm standing, I wouldn't mind sharing a coffin with some of these fine, sinewy cadavers I see here."

Lou felt a headache blooming behind her eyes. She had thought the Mimir, despite his crude manner of speaking, had a certain level of common sense. But now? She wasn't so sure. All she could see in the female zombies was the grotesque decay of their faces and bodies, their clothing little more than rags barely clinging to their rotting flesh. And the smell? It was enough to make her gag.

Morte, catching Lou's look of disgust, let out a chuckle. "Aw, come on, kid. Don't be so shallow. You can't judge a corpse by its decay, you know. It's what's on the inside that counts, right?" He paused, then added with a leer, "Of course, I'm guessing these particular corpses probably weren't much to look at even when they were breathing. The Dustmen tend to collect from the lower wards, if you know what I mean. It stood to reason they couldn't have afforded to take much care of their appearance in life, let alone in death. Can't afford to be too picky."

Lou understood his point. But Morte, his skull grinning, seemed to dismiss such concerns. "Psssssst. You see the way she was looking at me? Huh? You see that? The way she was following the curve of my occipital bone?"

Lou, however, could see nothing but the blank-eyed, beyond-the-grave stare in the zombies' eyes. There was no spark of interest, no hint of awareness. They were little more than animated corpses, going through the motions of some macabre pantomime of life.

Morte, perhaps sensing the growing exasperation in his companions, shifted his tone to something a little more serious as he turned back to The Nameless One. "Look, Chief, all I'm saying is, there's no need to go around killing these Zombies unnecessarily. If we want to sneak out of this Mortuary without attracting attention, it's better to keep things quiet. And their 'corpses' will just leave unnecessary clues behind, you know?"

The Nameless One, his expression pensive, seemed to consider Morte's words. Lou, despite her revulsion, had to admit there was a certain logic to the Mimir's argument. Avoiding confrontation, if possible, would probably be the wisest course of action. But the thought of getting any closer to those shambling horrors... ('Can I really do this?') she wondered, her heart pounding in her chest.

As the trio approached the end of the corridor, they found themselves face to face with another door. This one, however, was different from the others they had encountered. It was smaller, its surface marred by rust and grime, and adorned with what appeared to be dried blood and bits of rotting flesh, giving it a sinister, almost macabre appearance. 

Lou felt a shiver run down her spine as she took in the gruesome sight. ('What kind of twisted place is this?') she thought, her stomach churning. Her unease only grew when she noticed the zombie standing guard in front of the door, its yellowed skull partially exposed where the skin had peeled away from its forehead, likely due to decay.

As they drew closer, the zombie began to stir, its movements jerky and uncoordinated. Lou let out a small, startled gasp, her body tensing as she prepared to flee. The Nameless One, on the other hand, clenched his fists, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there, Chief!" Morte interjected, hovering between The Nameless One and the zombie. "Let's not go jumping straight to the old ultra-violence, eh? Maybe we should, I don't know, assess the situation first? Just a thought." His tone was light, almost joking, but there was a hint of some concern beneath the sarcasm.

Trusting Morte's judgment, they cautiously approached the zombie. To their surprise, the zombie grasped the heavy iron door with its decaying hands and, with a display of immense strength, heaved it open. Morte, his jaw clicking in satisfaction, turned to his companions.

"See? What did I tell you?" Morte crowed, his eye sockets somehow conveying a sense of smug satisfaction. "These mindless zombie workers, they'll just keep repeating their assigned tasks until they crumble to dust. Most of these Dusties, they're so sold on the whole 'death is better than life' shtick, they can't be bothered to do any real work. So, they get the stiffs to handle the heavy lifting, like opening these doors. Clever, in a morbid sort of way."

Lou found herself begrudgingly impressed by Morte's insight. Just moments ago, she had been too gripped by fear to even think straight. ('How did he figure all that out so quickly?') she wondered, a newfound respect for the floating skull growing within her.

"I have to admit, Morte, that's pretty amazing," Lou said, her voice soft but filled with genuine awe. "I mean, for an encyclopedia, you're incredibly intelligent. Almost like a highly advanced AI!"

Morte, however, seemed to puff up with pride at the compliment. "AI? Never heard of it, kid. But I can tell you this much: your average, run-of-the-mill AI-Mimir ain't half as smart as I am truly. The Chief here, he knows he's got a top-tier Mimir on his hands. I'm telling you, kid, I'm worth more then my weight in gold. Well, if I had any weight, that is. Let's just say I'd fetch a pretty penny on the open market. 5000 gold, easy."

Lou's eyes widened, her curiosity piqued. "So, were you specifically resurrected as a Mimir for some purpose?" she asked, her head tilting slightly as she studied Morte's grinning visage. "Did someone intentionally bring you back?"

Morte's grin faltered slightly, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.  "To be honest, kid... I'm not entirely sure. I mean, yeah, I know I was made from someone's skull. That much is obvious. But as for who I was before, or why I was brought back like this... your guess is as good as mine." He sighed, his eye sockets somehow conveying a sense of melancholy. "See, that's the thing about being a Mimir. We're not undead, not really. We don't have brains, or memories of our past lives. All of that, the intelligence, the knowledge... it's all magic. Pure and simple. As for the soul of whoever this skull used to belong to... well, they've probably moved on to the Fugue Plane by now. Wherever that is."

Lou nodded slowly, her mind racing as she tried to process this new information. Despite the sheer absurdity of it all, she found herself beginning to accept the strange rules that seemed to govern this world. "That's fascinating," she murmured, her eyes sparkling with intellectual curiosity. "You really are quite similar to an artificial intelligence, aren't you?"

The Nameless One, however, seemed less impressed. "A valuable trinket, then," he grunted, his scarred face twisting into a calculating expression. "If we find ourselves in need of funds, we could always sell the chatterbox for a tidy sum."

"Wow, way to reduce me to an object, Chief," Morte grumbled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "And here I thought we had something special."

The Nameless One shrugged, his eyes hardening. "What do you expect, skull? It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, skull. And at the end of the day, you're just an artificial construct. A soulless one, at that. The fact that you try to pretend otherwise, to act like you understand the absurdities of life... it's laughable. A self-contradictory joke."

Lou, taken aback by the callousness of The Nameless One's words, found herself wondering about the man's worldview. ('Is he always this cynical? This... pessimistic?') She had to admit, if Morte had been a true AI, she might have said something similar. The idea of a machine trying to grapple with the complexities of existence... it did seem a bit absurd, when she thought about it.

But Morte, for all his snark and bravado, seemed different somehow. There was a depth to him, a sense of self-awareness that went beyond mere programming. And the magic that had created him... who was to say it hadn't imbued him with something more? Something that transcended the boundaries of the artificial?

Lou, her brow furrowed in contemplation, found herself unable to fully reconcile the conflicting ideas. ('I don't know enough about this world, about the nature of magic and consciousness, to make that kind of judgment,') she thought, her mind awhirl with unanswered questions. ('But one thing's for certain: Morte is more than just a talking encyclopedia. He's... he's a person. Even if he doesn't have a body. And he deserves to be treated as such.')

As the group stood there, each lost in their own thoughts, the zombie worker continued its task, holding the door open with its unyielding strength. Beyond the threshold, a new section of the Mortuary awaited, its depths shrouded in shadows and mystery.

Morte, shaking off the remnants of cynicism, turned to his companions. "Well, what are we waiting for? An engraved invitation? Let's see what horrors this charming little death house has in store for us next, shall we?" He quipped, his irreverent humor once again masking the depth of his thoughts.

Lou, despite her trepidation, found herself nodding in agreement. ('He's right. We can't stop now. Not when we're so close to finding a way out of this nightmare.') With a deep breath, she steeled herself and followed The Nameless One and Morte through the open door, her mind still grappling with the philosophical quandaries that their conversation had unearthed.

As Lou, The Nameless One, and Morte entered the new room, they were greeted by the sight of more zombies engaged in mindless, mechanical labor. The dirty stone floor was crisscrossed with a dizzying array of metal rails, and while there were fewer corpses here, the zombies seemed to be clearing the room, pushing empty metal slabs around. At the far end of the room, illuminated by the meager light of the torches, was an open passageway that seemed to lead to more of the same repetitive structure.

The Nameless One, his scarred brow furrowed, muttered under his breath. "This place is a lot bigger than I thought," he growled, his voice low and rough. "We could be wandering around in here for hours."

Lou, her nose wrinkling at the stale, musty odor that permeated the air, couldn't help but agree. She coughed, trying to clear her lungs of the oppressive stench, and found herself studying the walls of the building with a growing sense of unease. ('The walls... they're curved,') she realized, her eyes widening. "This whole structure... it must be one giant, circular dome. Like a... like a burial mound."

Morte, ever the one for morbid humor, chuckled darkly. "Well, of course it's a tomb, kid. What did you expect? A five-star resort?" His eye sockets glinted with amusement as he added, "Although, I have to say, you stick out like a sore thumb in this place. That pristine white uniform of yours? Totally clashes with the whole 'realm of the dead' aesthetic we've got going on here."

Lou glanced down at her school uniform, noting with dismay the layer of dust and grime that had already begun to accumulate on the crisp white fabric. She brushed at it self-consciously, trying to maintain some semblance of cleanliness in this macabre environment.

The Nameless One, his eyes narrowing as he studied Lou's attire, grunted in agreement. "The skull's right. We need to find you something to cover it up with. Something that won't draw attention." His gaze fell upon a pile of tattered, brown cloth draped over one of the corpses. "That should do the trick."

Lou, her eyes widening in horror, shook her head vehemently. ('No, no, no! I am not wearing something that's been touching a dead body!') she thought, her stomach churning at the very idea. She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a word, the sound of metal scraping against metal echoed from the open passageway at the far end of the room.

Two zombies emerged from the open passageway at the far end of the room, pushing a metal slab between them. And there, lying atop the cold surface, was a fresh corpse, its flesh torn and bloody, viscera spilling from the gaping wounds. Lou felt her gorge rise, and she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit.

The zombies navigated the twisting paths of the metal rails, their movements precise and calculated, as if following a predetermined route. As Lou watched, transfixed by the macabre procession, she noticed that the rails converged at the center of the room, leading towards a strange pedestal that rose almost to the ceiling.

Squinting through the flickering torchlight, Lou realized that the object atop the pedestal was not made of stone or metal, but rather appeared to be crafted from leather. And as she looked closer, she saw that it was not a solid mass, but rather had a distinct shape - like a book that had been folded in half, its pages bound together. ('It is a book! A giant, leather-bound tome!') she thought, her eyes widening in disbelief.

The zombies came to a halt beside the pedestal, their cargo of flesh and bone lying still and silent on the metal slab. And then, Lou saw something that made her blood run cold. A shadow on the wall behind the book began to move, slowly detaching itself from the stone and taking on a humanoid shape. It was tall and thin, with elongated limbs that seemed to stretch and twist in the flickering light.

The shadow approached the metal slab, bending over the corpse as if examining it. Lou held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched the eerie scene unfold. ('Is it... checking the body? Making sure it's really dead?') she wondered, a sickening knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

After a moment, the figure straightened and returned to its original position behind the book. It seemed to be writing something, its movements quick and precise, the scratching of a quill against parchment barely audible over the low groans of the zombies. Once it had finished its grim record-keeping, the figure melted back into the shadows, becoming one with the wall once more.

As the zombies began to move the slab once more, Morte hissed in Lou's ear. "That's gotta be one of the Dusties," he whispered. "We'd best keep quiet and stay out of sight. Don't want to attract any unwanted attention."

The Nameless One, agreeing with Morte's suggestion, picked up a tattered cloth that lay on an empty metal slab nearby. With a dry, humorless chuckle, he held it out to Lou. "Time for a wardrobe change, kid," he grunted, his scarred face twisting into a mirthless grin. "Can't have you drawing too much attention."

Lou's face fell as she stared at the proffered garment, her eyes wide with dismay. ('No, no, no!') her mind screamed, recoiling at the very thought of donning the filthy, threadbare fabric. She opened her mouth to refuse, to beg for another solution, but the words died on her lips as a sinking realization settled in her gut. ('My clothes... they really will get us into trouble, won't they?') With a heavy heart and a queasy stomach, she reached out to take the cloth from The Nameless One's outstretched hand. "O-okay," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I guess... I guess I don't have a choice."

But as her fingers brushed against the tattered fabric, Lou noticed something that made her blood run cold. There, tangled within the folds of the cloth, were the gruesome remnants of corpses - bits of desiccated flesh, clumps of matted hair, and the unmistakable glint of yellowed bone. As if on cue, a gust of stale, musty air wafted through the room, catching the edge of the cloth and sending it fluttering. The movement released a horrific stench, the putrid odor of decay and rot washing over Lou's face like a physical blow.

Lou recoiled, gagging as the foul miasma invaded her nostrils and throat. Her stomach heaved, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit. Tears stung her eyes as she staggered back, shaking her head vehemently. "I can't," she choked out, her words muffled by her trembling fingers. "I can't wear that. Please, there has to be another way."

The Nameless One's face darkened, his eyes narrowing in displeasure as he watched the girl struggle to suppress her retching and moans. With an annoyed grunt, he flung the tattered cloth away, letting it fall in a crumpled heap on the ground. "Fine," he muttered, his tone cold and clipped. "Have it your way. But don't come crying to me when the Dusties spot you and decide to add you to their collection." Without another word, he turned on his heel and started walking towards the center of the room, his heavy footsteps echoing loudly in the cavernous space.

Morte, startled by The Nameless One's sudden departure, hurried after him, his eye sockets wide with alarm. "Whoa, chief!" he called out, his voice tinged with a mix of concern and exasperation. "What are you doing? We can't just go barging in there like we own the place!"

But The Nameless One paid no heed to Morte's words, his gaze fixed on the massive leather-bound book that dominated the center of the room. He approached it without hesitation, his steps sure and purposeful, as if drawn by some inexorable force.

Morte, growing increasingly agitated, darted in front of The Nameless One, trying to block his path. "Chief, come on," he pleaded, his voice urgent and low. "We talked about this, remember? Making contact with the Dusties in their own stronghold? Not a good idea. Let's just find a way out of here and-"

The Nameless One cut him off with a sharp look, his eyes glinting with a fierce, almost desperate intensity. "And how do you propose we do that, skull?" he growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "In case you haven't noticed, we're trapped in this godsforsaken maze of a mortuary, with no idea how we got here or where we're supposed to go." He jabbed a finger towards the book, his scarred face twisting into a scowl. "If we don't start interacting with these Dusties, we're never going to get any clues about my situation. And I, for one, am not content to wander around aimlessly until we stumble upon an exit."

Lou, still crouching on the ground where she had collapsed, watched the exchange between The Nameless One and Morte with a growing sense of unease. ('What should I do?') she thought, her mind racing as she tried to weigh her options. ('Follow them and risk attracting the attention of the Dusties? Or stay here and hope they come back for me?') But as the zombie procession began to approach her position, their shuffling steps and low, eerie groans sending shivers down her spine, Lou knew she couldn't remain alone. With a shuddering breath, she pushed herself to her feet and hurried after Morte and The Nameless One, her heart pounding in her chest.

As Lou caught up to her companions, she heard Morte's urgent whisper, his words tinged with a hint of desperation. "And we especially shouldn't be swapping the chant with sick Dusties. C'mon, let's leave. The quicker we give this place the laugh, the bet-"

But Morte's words were cut short by a fit of violent coughing that drew Lou's attention. She looked up, startled, to see an elderly man in robes sitting before the open pages of the massive, ancient tome. His skin was heavily wrinkled, yellowed like the parchment pages, and his sunken eyes were a dull, opaque gray. An enormous white beard cascaded down to the hem of his robe, making him appear even more ancient and frail.

The old man struggled to suppress his coughing fit, his trembling hand gripping a blue quill tightly. His face was etched with lines of pain and grim determination as he fought to regain his composure. Finally, as the coughing subsided, he spoke, his aged voice forming distinct, if somewhat labored, tones.

"The weight of years hangs heavy upon me, Restless One," he said, setting the quill down on his lap with a trembling hand. His grim expression clearly indicated he was in pain, but there was a sharpness in his gaze as he fixed The Nameless One with a penetrating stare. "...but I do not yet count deafness among my ailments."

The Nameless One stared at the old man, his scarred brow furrowing as he processed the words. "Restless One," he repeated, his voice a low rumble. "What do you mean by that? Do you... know something about me?"

The old man let out a weary sigh, his sunken eyes fixing The Nameless One with a penetrating gaze. "As always, the question. And the wrong question, as always." He gestured around them, his trembling hand sweeping over the macabre surroundings. "You are in the Mortuary, Restless One. You have... come... A-"

The old man's words were cut off by another fit of violent coughing, his frail body shaking with the force of it. Lou watched, her heart twisting with a mixture of pity and unease, as he struggled to regain his composure. After a long moment, he spoke again, his voice raspy and strained.

"...this is the waiting room for those about to depart the shadow of this life, where the dead are brought to be interred or cremated. It is our responsibility as Dustmen to care for the dead, those who have left this shadow of life and walk the path to True Death."

The Nameless One's eyes narrowed, his scarred face twisting into a scowl of impatience. "Is that supposed to be an answer to my question?" he growled, his tone sharp and demanding.

The old man, seemingly unfazed by The Nameless One's brusque manner, continued his exposition, his voice taking on a detached, almost clinical tone. "I am Dhall, a scribe, a cataloger of all the shells that come to this Mortuary."

He gestured to the massive tome before him, its yellowed pages filled with thousands upon thousands of names, each chapter a grim record of the deceased. Lou's eyes widened as she took in the sheer scale of the book, the weight of all those lost lives pressing down on her like a physical force.

"This work has consumed much of my long twilight years," Dhall continued, his voice tinged with a bone-deep weariness. "It is all I can do to record the names of the dead who pass through these halls each day. To remember one such as yourself, who cannot even remember himself... that is not within the scope of my duties."

The Nameless One fell silent at Dhall's words, his hand coming up to rub at his jaw as he pondered their implication. Lou, her mind racing, found herself coming to a startling realization. ('Again?') she thought, her heart sinking as she began to understand what Dhall was implying.

Dhall turned his gaze to Lou, his eyes seeming to bore into her very soul. "Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He always returns. Each time, bearing the most grievous of wounds... this place is almost a home to him."

Lou flinched as Dhall addressed her directly, her eyes wide and startled. The old man's gaze softened, a flicker of something akin to sympathy passing over his wrinkled features. 

"His existence is firmly entwined with the shadow of life," Dhall continued, his words seeming to be directed more at Lou than at The Nameless One. "He can never reach the True Death."

As Dhall finished speaking, he turned his attention back to The Nameless One, leaving Lou with the unsettling feeling that the words had been meant for her ears alone. The Nameless One, his expression pensive, broke the silence with a question.

"This 'shadow of life', this 'True Death' you keep mentioning... what do you mean by that?" he asked, his voice low and intense.

Dhall was once again seized by a fit of coughing, his body shaking with the force of it. When he finally regained his breath, he fixed The Nameless One with a piercing stare, his eyes bright with a feverish intensity.

"Yes, a shadow. You see, Restless One, this life... it is not real. Your life, my life, they are shadows, flickerings of what life once was. This 'life' is where we end up after we die. And here we remain... trapped. Caged. Until we can reach True Death."

There was a profound sorrow in Dhall's voice, a grief so tangible that Lou could almost feel it brushing against her skin. The Nameless One, his expression inscrutable, gestured for Dhall to continue.

"Here is purgatory. There is only sorrow here. Misery. Torment. These are not the elements that make up 'life.'" Dhall's words hung heavy in the air, a suffocating weight that seemed to press down on Lou's chest. 

The Nameless One's eyes flashed with a sudden clarity, as if he had stumbled upon a revelation. His words, when they came, were sharp and biting, laced with a cynicism that was almost palpable.

"Dogmatic," he sneered, his lips curling into a humorless smile. He inhaled deeply, the stench of decay and rot filling his nostrils. The cynicism seemed to darken his scarred features, turning his expression into something almost sinister.

"Suffering is clearly a part of life," The Nameless One continued, his voice dripping with disdain. "And if you define life itself as the struggle to escape it, then even your miserable fatalism is a degraded form of life."

He gestured towards the nearby zombies, his scarred hand sweeping over their grotesque forms. "Blood and fire, blade and rot, festering wounds and accelerating decay... and those who can't endure it... I heard the Dusties believe all people should end up like that..." 

The Nameless One's gaze raked over Dhall's withered form, his eyes traveling from the hem of the old man's robe to the top of his head. A cruel smile played at the corners of his lips as he delivered his final blow.

"Congratulations, you seem to have come quite close to that yourself."

Lou's eyes widened in shock and dismay at The Nameless One's harsh words. Her own disagreement with Dhall's bleak philosophy was evident, but the manner in which The Nameless One expressed his disdain felt unnecessarily cruel.

Lou opened her mouth to speak, her voice trembling slightly. "That's..." But before she could finish her thought, Morte cut her off, his eye sockets flickering with a mischievous light. "Whoa there, kid," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "I know what you're thinking, but trust me, this isn't the time or place to get involved."

Lou turned to Morte, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I don't agree with how he's speaking to Dhall. It's so... disrespectful." She glanced over at The Nameless One, who was still glaring at the elderly scribe with a look of pure contempt.

Morte chuckled, his jaw clicking softly. "Look, Louise, I get it. You're a nice girl, and you want everyone to play nice. But sometimes, a little disrespect is exactly what the situation calls for." He floated closer to her, his voice dropping even lower. "See, the thing about arguing is, it's not about being polite. It's about getting to the truth. And sometimes, the only way to do that is to be a little... aggressive."

Lou frowned, her mind racing as she tried to process Morte's words. "But... but isn't the whole point of a discussion to be respectful of the other person's point of view?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "I mean, how can you expect to convince someone of anything if you're just attacking them?"

Morte grinned, his eye sockets sparkling with amusement. "Ah, see, that's where you're wrong, kid. Sometimes, the only way to get through to someone is to confront them with their own contradictions. To point out the flaws in their logic, even if it means being a little harsh." He chuckled, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Trust me, Louise, the Chief there, he's got a way with words. Blunt, sure, but effective. When you're dealing with someone as stuck in their ways as ol' Dhall here, sometimes you need a verbal hammer to crack that shell of dogma."

Lou fell silent, her mind whirling with conflicting thoughts. She had always believed in the power of respectful discourse, of engaging with others in a way that honored their dignity and humanity. But as she thought back to the great thinkers she had studied, the ones she had always admired... hadn't they all been known for their sharp tongues and biting critiques? Perhaps there was something to be said for a more assertive approach, even if it went against her instincts.

Dhall, for his part, seemed entirely unfazed by The Nameless One's harsh words. He sniffed disdainfully, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the scarred man before him. "For one who arrived at the Mortuary on a cart, buried amidst rotting corpses and the stench of decay, you seem to have quite the appreciation for life, Restless One," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

He picked up his quill, tapping the tip against his forehead in a gesture that seemed more habitual than conscious. "Passions carry weight," he said, his gaze boring into The Nameless One's eyes with an intensity that belied his frail appearance. "They anchor many to this shadow of life. As long as one clings to emotion, they will be continually reborn into this 'life,' forever suffering, never knowing the purity of True Death."

Dhall cleared his throat, the sound a grating rasp in the stillness of the room. "Your life, such as it is, is a testament to the folly of desire, Restless One," he said, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "Only by extinguishing your passions, by shedding your craving for sensation, can you hope to attain the clarity of True Death and break the cycle of rebirth."

The Nameless One snorted, his scarred lip curling in a sneer. "Spare me the sermonizing, old man," he growled, his tone sharp and biting. "My life is my own damned business. Criticizing me won't solve your problems or validate your worldview, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise."

Lou couldn't help but feel a little flicker of admiration for The Nameless One's rebuttal, even as she suppressed a shudder at his aggressive demeanor. ('He's certainly no stranger to verbal sparring,') she thought, her mind racing as she tried to reconcile this display of razor-sharp wit with the brutish, physically-imposing figure she had first encountered.

Dhall let out a deep, weary sigh, the sound seeming to emanate from the very depths of his being. It was the sigh of a man who had long since grown accustomed to the obstinacy of the living, the resigned exhalation of one who knew the futility of trying to convince the unconvincible. "I do not expect you to agree with my perspective, Restless One," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of centuries. "But I do understand the nature of your burden, the crushing weight of the destiny you bear."

The old scribe's eyes, deep and fathomless, flicked to Lou and Morte, seeming to appraise them with a gaze that cut through to the very core of their beings. "Those such as yourself, Restless One... you draw many lost souls into your orbit," he said, his tone almost pitying. "But so few of them survive the journey..."

Dhall said, his tone heavy with resignation. "In the end... it is always you alone who returns to us..."

The Nameless One's piercing gaze remained fixed on Dhall, his eyes smoldering with an intensity that seemed to bore into the very depths of the old scribe's soul. Lou watched, her heart pounding in her chest, as the two men stared each other down, the air crackling with an almost palpable tension.

Dhall, his voice steady and unwavering, met The Nameless One's gaze without flinching. "You see, you may have forgotten again, but there were such souls," he said, his tone almost pitying. "And some of whose names are recorded in my books. I have written their names on your behalf, seen the last of them off..."

He paused, and for a moment, Lou thought she saw a flicker of something akin to sorrow pass over his weathered features, a brief shadow of sorrow that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "...though I would not say that they were necessarily your fault," Dhall continued, his tone measured and even. "For every living being sends ripples through the world with its pulsing life force, though there are differences in their magnitude, and not all of them converge in negative effects..."

His gaze grew distant, unfocused, as if he were peering into some unseen realm beyond the confines of the mortuary. "Your ripples, at least from what I have seen so far, have engulfed several lives like a malignant black wave."

Lou's breath caught in her throat as she listened to Dhall's ominous words, her mind reeling with the implications. She glanced at The Nameless One, trying to gauge his reaction, but his scarred face remained inscrutable, his emotions hidden behind a mask of stoic gravitas.

Dhall, seemingly unbothered by The Nameless One's stony silence, pressed on, his voice taking on a note of accusation. "And that's not all," he asked, his rheumy eyes narrowing. "From the first time I saw you, you were already an immortal, tattooed with too many scars to count. And for every one of those scars, you failed to resist this life. Your return and oblivion prove it. So how can I not speak of 'The Dead,' our partisans, simply because I do not know your entire past?"

The zombies arrived at Dhall's side, he turned his attention to the corpse laid out on the slab beside them, checking the name tag with a practiced eye. His fingers trembling slightly as he began to enter it into the Book of the Dead. The familiar motion seemed to bring him a measure of comfort.

But The Nameless One remained silent, his expression inscrutable, his posture rigid and unmoving. Lou studied his face, trying to discern some hint of his emotional state, but found only a stony, impassive mask. ('He seems so... grave,') she thought, a sense of unease settling in the pit of her stomach. ('As if he's reached that state of what Dhall calls the "death of passion."')

And yet, even as the thought crossed her mind, Lou felt a sudden, inexplicable hunch that beneath that cracked and weathered exterior, something still stirred. ('The land is not dead,') she realized with a start, her eyes widening at the sheer audacity of the notion. ('But I can't imagine how deep it might be buried...') 

As Dhall finished writing in his massive tome, the procession of zombie workers pulled away, their grisly cargo of corpses and viscera disappearing into the shadows. A heavy silence descended upon the room, broken only by the distant groans of the undead.

After a long moment, The Nameless One spoke, his voice dry and casual, the earlier aggression notably absent. "Tell me about people I traveled with."

Lou's heart skipped a beat at the words, a sudden, terrible realization dawning upon her. ('What if... what if his former companions have become zombies?') Terrible thought struck her, and she felt a wave of fear wash over her like a frigid tide. ('I... I don't think I could handle... even if it wasn't my own...')

Lou, her voice trembling, found herself speaking before she could stop herself. "Please," she said, her words coming out in a rush. "Please, if you can... don't tell us about them. I... I don't think I want to know..."

But Dhall, his expression one of somber understanding, shook his head slowly. "Most of them have been cremated," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of centuries. "Reduced to ashes, scattered to the winds. Only one, a woman named Deionarra, is buried in the northwest memorial hall on the first floor."