Words of No Wisdom
by Anonymous | Score: 4400
Lewn leaned forward. The thing's musty rank was enough to curl the nose of some lesser delver. Was that him? It was hard to tell. Luck had always been a key element when speaking to the dead. They were so rarely helpful with divulging much of anything useful. Oftentimes, it was regrets that sat most heavily on their decaying minds. Admittedly, they were a bit boring. The brain of the dead, recently or long-decayed, were barely more than a decayed tomato in all their nutritional (and physical consistency) attributes.
Lewn rubbed his eyes. The little cherubim he'd left on the empty wall sconce to hold his lantern looked at him with glossy, glass eyeballs. It had heard his conversation with the leathery corpse and, like him, seemed entirely unimpressed. Though the thing lacked imagination, or even comprehension for how anything it recorded through its wide, rectangular ears may in any way be useful, it often carried an air of haughty disregard, as if its head was being filled with nothing but garbage. Though they were common tools for the trade Lewn found himself in, they were rarely loved and not even universally tolerated. They recorded -everything- after all. And more than one delver had found himself in prison because of a bit of twilight graverobbing that he forgot was being eavesdropped on.
Lewn stood from where he had been listening to the dead man's unmoving mouth. He produced a pair of tongs and opened his creaking jaws. More fetid, offal air leaked out like ancient dust and he nearly gagged.
"Say again," Lewn said, forming the sign of invocation with his left hand- his right held the dead's mouth open wider. "Say again, says I."
"Not knowledgeable enough to be wise," it croaked, "only enough to be dangerous."
"Who?" Lewn asked. "Dangerous in what way, to whom?"
The cherubim clicked once, too loudly for comfort. The thing's clockwork brain, which ran like a brass spine down its creamy-pale back, had switched reams. Though, the timing of it made it sound like a snide little bark of laughter.
Lewn contorted his fingers into the painful sign of impressment. "Who?" he asked.
"You," the corpse gasped.